OF  IHE 
JNIVERSITY 


,    ^ir^A^^' 


— — ^ 


Briar  ^  ^ 
Blossoms, 


Being  a  Collection  of  a  Few 

Verses  and  Some  Prose  .  ,  . 


BY- 


HOWARD  LLEWELLYN  SWISHER. 


1899. 
ACME  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 

MORGANTOWN,  W.  VA. 


GIFI" 


4U 


To 

Mr,  John  Wallace, 

OF 

WHEELING. 

A  good  Fellow  and  a  Writer  of 

Clever  Verses. 


M64Ji400 


Preface. 

E'en  a  Good  Story  too  often  Told 
Provokes  a  Smile  because  it's  old. 


Things  You  Read  About, 

PAGE 

Some  Glimpses  of  Yosemite 9 

The  Sleigh  Bells 15 

A  Lonely  Grave 16 

Bohemian  Love  Song 17 

Despair 18 

Black  Man  or  White 19 

A  Little  Flirt 24 

Minnehaha 25 

Mammy's  Boy 27 

Lottie  Doon 30 

The  Spring  Neath  the  Old  Gum  Tree 32 

A  Song  of  the  Northland 33 

My  Rival 34 

In  West  Virginia 37 

Recollections  of  an  Old  Bachelor 38 

Shooting  Stars 40 

The  Revelation  of  Harry  Sheldon  42 

Noel  45 

Books 46 

A  Rondolet 47 

The  Mysterious  Brooch 48 

Le  Feever's  Confession 52 

A  Song  of  Today 56 

Selections  from  Abdiolel 57 

The  Lost  Child [ .[[  68 

Them  Frogs 70 

Spring  Equinox 71 


THINGS  YOU  READ  ABOtlT. 


Good  Ni^^ht "^^ 

A  Recollection  73 

Alumni  Poem "^^ 

The  Island  of  Despair 82 

Reciprocity 84 

Tlie  Poet 86 

Requital 87 

A  Translation 88 

Medley 89 

Success— M.  S.  Cornwell 95 

When  Pad  Strikes  I'le— John  Wallace  96 

The  Marriners  Love— Geo.  M.  Ford 87 

The  Dead  Sure  Thing— J.  M.  Kunkle 99 

On  Tumble  Down  Street— C.  Luke  Michael 101 

Yesterday— Jas.  W.  Horn 102 

Isle  of  Going-to-be— C.  Luke  Michael 104 

The  Little  White  Kerchief— C.  Luke  Michael 105 

I'm  Goin'  Home  fer  Christmas— John  Wallace 106 

Expectation— J.  Cal.  Watkins 107 

A  Sylvan  Tragedy— Alice  Piersol  Cain 108 


Briar  Biossoms, 


Some  Glimpses  of  Yosemite. 

"The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden  pockets, 
AVhere  Nature  stows  away  her  lovliness." 

He  who  has  failed  to  see  Yosemite  Valley  has  missed  one  of 
life's  choice  pleasures.  Nestled  in  the  heart  of  the  Sierras, 
lies  this  scenic  wonder,  this  gigantic  assemblage  of  peaks  and 
canons,  overshadowed  by  the  Himalayas  alone  and  not  surpassed 
for  ruggedness  even  by  the  Andes  themselves. 

No  railroad  leads  directly  to  it ;  in  fact  not  nearer  than  fifty 
miles.  At  Barenda  the  main  line  of  the  Southern  Pacific  is 
left  and  a  branch  line  carries  you  to  Raymond,  a  small  station 
among  the  foothills. 

Two  days  by  stage  are  necessary  to  complete  the  journey  to 
Yosemite.  More  than  10,000  feet  of  ascent  is  necessary  to 
reach  the  highest  peak  of  the  Valley  from  Raymond. 

The  first  day  we  will  ascend  8000  feet,  only  to  descend  4000 
feet  to  Wawona  to  spend  the  night.  This  day's  drive  will  not 
be  without  its  pleasures,  especially  if  the  time  is  spring. 
Green  hills  rise  all  around,  crested  with  a  few  rude  digger 
pines,  white  oaks  of  stunted  growth  with  knotted  arms  over- 
shadow the  way,  while  here  and  there  a  live  oak  spreads  its 
intricate  branches,  with  their  shining  green  leaves  forming  a 
a  hiding  place  for  the  shy  blue  quails  that  peep  at  us  as  we 
pass. 

Night  finds  us  at  Wawona,  where  is  situated  a  fine  hotel  for 
the  accommodation  of  tourists,  and  a  place  in  itself  not  lacking 
attractions,  but  we  are  tending  to  Yosemite  and  will  pass  it  by 
unnoticed. 

Twenty-five  miles  yet  intervene  between  us  and  the  Mecca 
of  our  pilgrimage.     Wawona  is  at  an   elevation   of  4000  feet, 


10  SOME  GLIMPSES  OF  YO SEMITE. 

equal  to  that  of  the  floor  of  the  Valley,  but  the  stage  road  leads 
over  a  mountain  0000  or  7000  feet  in  height ;  hence  some 
climbing  is  necessary  during  the  second  day's  travel.  The 
scenery  is  changed  from  what  we  saw  yesterday.  The  scrubby 
oaks  have  given  way  to  lofty  yellow  and  sugar  pines  which, 
together  with  the  graceful  redwood,  cast  sombre  shadows 
over  the  roadway. 

The  flowers  too  have  changed.  We  no  longer  see  the  fuzzy 
lupines,  the  nodding  calochortus  or  the  flaming  California 
po})py.  Instead,  an  occasional  snow^  plant  raises  its  accusing 
countenance  dripping  blood  red,  a  mountain  flag,  or  the  showy 
flowers  of  the  leatherwood  tree  are  our  companions.  On 
we  go  over  a  gentle  rise  or  down  a  steep  declivity.  There 
the  road  hugs  close  to  the  mountain  wall  and  we  gaze  into  the 
depths  below,  now  we  travel  along  the  top  of  a  forested  ridge. 

Btit  we  are  nearing  the  end  of  our  journey.  Around  a  sud- 
den turn  we  dash  and  the  driver  draws  his  reins.  We  have 
reached  Inspiration  Point.  This  place  is  not  misnamed.  It  is 
here  the  first  full  view  of  Yosemite  Valley  greets  the  eye  of 
the  weary  tourist,  who  has  traveled  perhaps  thousands  of 
miles  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  behold  its  wonders.  Two 
thousand  feet  below  lies  the  verdant  valley  sleeping  in  its 
mountain  fastness.  Looking  eastward  one  can  take  in  the 
entire  valley.  About  seven  miles  in  length;  in  width  from  one- 
half  to  one  mile. 

Through  it  glides  the  placid  Merced,  giving  little  token  of 
the  mighty  leaps  it  has  made  to  reach  this  channel,  and  less 
indication  of  its  yet  rugged  ramblings.  B(3side  it  a  chance 
wigwam  of  the  Yosemite  or  Grizzly  Bear  Indians  is  seen,  but 
they  have  continually  dwindled  away  since  the  discovery  of 
the  valley  by  white  men  in  1H51.  On  either  side  of  the  valley 
rise  granite  walls,  varying  in  height  from  2000  to  BOOO  feet. 
Here  moulded  into  a  solid  faced  wall,  there  shooting  into  peaks, 
some   smooth,  others   jagged   and   rough.     Over   these   walls 


SOME  GLIMPSES  OF  YO SEMITE.  11 

pour  various  streams,  some  mere  threads,  some  creeks  and 
rivers,  forming  the  most  wonderful  cataracts  in  the  world. 

After  we  had  looked  until  weary,  the  driver  snapped  his 
whip  and  soon  we  were  winding  down  the  side  of  the  mountain 
into  the  valley.  It  was  in  May,  1894,  that  we  visited  this 
valley,  although  we  arrived  earlier  in  the  season  than  the  full 
tide  of  visitors  sets  in,  I  think  we  could  scarcely  have  chosen 
a  more  propitious  time,  for  as  it  happened  we  got  to  see  the 
valley  in  both  its  winter  and  spring  loveliness.  It  had  been 
summer  weather  for  more  than  a  month  in  the  San  Joaquin 
valley,  and  the  snow,  even  in  this  high  altitude,  was  almost 
gone,  except  on  the  higher  peaks,  where  it  lays  all  summer. 
A  rain  began  about  midnight,  and  in  the  morning  what  a 
change!  Has  winter  returned  in  all  its  iciness?  So  it  would 
seem,  for  what  was  at  night  covered  with  flowers  and  grass  is 
now  carpeted  with  snow.  A  great  transfiguration  certainly, 
but  not  lacking  in  the  beauty. 

The  old  peaks  looked  very  venerable  with  their  hoary 
crowns.  The  trees  that  fringed  the  edges  of  the  cliffs  were  not 
burdened  by  snow,  but  seemed  crystalized.  Every  branch, 
twig,  and  leaf  had  a  glossy  coat,  which  made  the  rays  of  the 
full  faced  sun,  that  now  looked  wonderingly  on  the  scene, 
dance  and  twinkled  for  joy. 

The  valley  lies  almost  due  east  and  west,  with  an  arm  branch- 
ing to  the  southeast  and,  as  we  have  noticed,  is  hemmed  in  by 
high  walls  which  here  and  there  rise  into  lofty  peaks.  On  the 
northern  side  of  the  valley,  at  the  western  end,  stands  El  Cap- 
tain, a  huge,  solid  faced  cliff  rising  vertically  3300  feet  above 
the  valley  floor,  thus  making  its  summit  over  seven  thousand 
feet  above  sea  level.  In  saying  that  the  cliff's  face  is  vertical 
we  make  a  slight  mistake;  it  really  leans  out  one  hundred  feet 
or  more  toward  the  valley,  giving  one  the  unpleasant  sensation 
as  he  stands  at  its  base  and  looks  upward  at  it,  that  he  is  about 
to  be  crushed. 

On  the  same  side  of  the  valley  jai'e   the   Three   Brothers,  so 


12  SOME  GLIMPSES  OF  YOSEMITE. 

called  because  three  sons  of  Teneya,  the  last  chief  of  the  Yos- 
emite  Indians,  were  captured  at  this  spot  by  the  white  men  in 
1851.  The  highest  of  these,  Eagle  Peak,  is  near  4000  feet. 
Further  up  we  pass  Yosemite  Point  and  Washington  Tower. 
At  the  eastern  end  of  the  valley  we  find  ourselves  between  two 
immense  granite  masses,  known  as  North  Dome  and  South 
Dome.  The  former  rising  3700  feet  above  the  smooth  surface 
of  Mirror  Lake,  which  lies  between  them. 

Closing  the  aperture  at  this  end  of  the  valley  is  Cloud  Rest, 
nearly  6000  feet  high.  Back  of  South  Dome  are  Grizzly  Peak 
and  Liberty  Cap,  both  towering  shafts  of  stone.  Still  farther 
down  on  the  southern  side  of  the  valley  is  Glacier  Point.  On 
the  same  side,  opposite  Yosemite  Point,  is  Sentinel  Rock,  on 
whose  almost  inaccessible  summit  floated  a  flag  placed  thereby 
the  hand  of  a  lady  adventurer.  Below  this  and  facing  El  Captain 
stand  Cathedral  Rocks,  adjoining  Cathedral  Spires.  These 
spires  rise  from  the  rocky  height  of  two  thousand  feet,  shoot- 
ing their  slender  columns  700  feet  further  into  space. 

The  waterfalls  form  no  secondary  attraction.  They,  like  the 
peaks,  cliffs,  and  domes  are  many  and  beautiful;  but  we  pause 
for  only  three  or  four:  The  first  one  seen  on  entering  the  valley 
is  the  Bridal  Veil  Fall.  Here  the  waters  of  Phono  Creek  pour 
over  the  southern  wall  600  feet  into  the  Merced.  This  fall  is 
well  named.  The  wind  gently  waves  the  spray  to  and  fro  as 
a  breath  might  move  the  real  bridal  veil,  and  in  the  evening 
when  the  sun  causes  a  rainbow  to  play  in  its  midst,  one  can 
easily  imagine  he  sees  behind  the  veil  the  glowing  cheeks  of  a 
blushing  bride. 

Through  the  southern  arm  of  the  valley  enters  Merced 
River.  On  this  we  find  both  the  Vernal  and  the  Nevada  Falls. 
The  Nevada  is  farthest  up  the  river  and  is  the  highest.  Over 
it  the  Merced,  a  stream  about  100  feet  wide,  dashes  itself  on 
the  rocks  650  below.  It  looks  not  unlike  a  huge  avalanche  of 
snow  as  it  churns  its  waters  into  whiteness  and  foam.  About 
a  mile  below  this  is  Vernal  Falls,  not  so  high  but  more  beau- 


SOME  aUMPSES  OF  YO SEMITE.  IS 


tiful.  These  falls  are  only  850  feet  high,  small  as  compared 
with  the  others,  but  more  than  twice  as  high  as  Niagara. 
Advancing  near  the  foot  of  the  falls,  though  the  spray  rains 
heavily,  one  sees  a  j^eculiar  spectacle.  Each  of  the  falls  at 
the  proper  time  of  day  has  its  beautiful  rainbows.  But  here 
was  something  different.  A  circle  of  rainbow  colors,  whose 
edge  just  reached  my  feet,  quivered  in  a  horizontal  plane.  I 
stood  gazing  in  wonder  upon  this  pleasing  phenomenon  until 
I  was  thoroughly  drenched  by  the  sj)ray.  I  then  moved  nearer 
the  base  of  the  fall,  but  the  circle  still  tremblingly  followed. 
After  watching  it  about  an  hour,  the  sun  having  changed  its 
position,  the  glowiner  colors  melted  into  the  silver  spray. 

It  would  be  unpardonable  to  attempt  a  sketch  of  Yosemite 
without  noting  its  greatest  attraction,  Yosemite  Falls.  That 
wonderful  cataract  which  is  higher  than  the  three  waterfalls  of 
Southland  combined;  eights  times  more  lofty  than  the  Victoria 
Falls,  and  equaling  in  height  sixteen  Niagaras.  Here  the 
waters  of  Yosemite  Creek,  fresh  from  the  snowy  fountains, 
cast  themselves  down  2634  feet.  There  are  three  divisions  of 
the  Falls:  first,  a  vertical  plunge  of  sixteen  hundred  feet; 
second,  a  series  of  cascades,  where  in  a  distance  of  one-eighth 
mile  a  descent  of  over  400  feet  is  made,  and  then  a  final  leap 
of  600  feet. 

I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  Falls,  May  15,  1894,  through  the 
snow  and  wet,  and  though  tired  from  the  journey  I  was  fully 
repaid.  At  the  top  of  the  Falls  is  a  railing  firmly  imbedded  in 
the  granite.  Over  this  one  can  lean  and  see  the  water  rush 
past  him  one  instant  and  the  next  see  it  seething  and  boiling 
in  its  rocky  cauldron  1600  feet  below.  As  I  watched  it  the 
prismatic  colors  were  playing  hide  and  seek  among  the  spray 
dashed  off  in  the  descent.  It  was  reluctantly  that  I  left  the 
place. 

Let  us  not  leave  this  wonderland  until  we  have  taken  a  peejj 
into  its  looking  glass — Mirror  Lake.  This  lake  lies  at  the 
eastern  end  of  the  valley.     It  is  only  a   few  hundred   yards  in 


U  SOME  GLIMPSES  OF  YOSEMITE. 

circumference,  is  walled  in  by  some  of  the  highest  peaks  and 
domes  of  the  valley  and  supplied  with  water  by  Teneya  Creek. 
To  enjoy  its  peculiar  reflective  power  one  must  be  at  the  lake 
before  sunrise.  Then  one  sees  reflected,  with  all  the  faithful- 
ness of  the  most  polished  mirror,  all  the  objects  which  sur- 
round the  lake,  from  the  impending  cliifs  and  vast  domes  to 
the  trembling  bush  that  clings  to  its  sides.  Most  beautiful  of 
all  is  the  reflected  sunrise.  To  watch  it  is  to  realize  the  inabil- 
ity of  Art  to  rival  the  beauties  of  Nature.  Sitting  at  the  water's 
edge  and  looking  steadily  at  the  reflected  summit  of  the  oppo- 
site dome,  one  sees  the  approach  of  sun,  heralded  by  the 
brightening  of  a  portion  of  the  sky.  If  there  be  light  clouds 
floating  by  they  will  be  mellowed  into  a  bright  golden  color  as 
they  pass.  Soon  one  sees  the  sun  like  a  burnished  star  peep 
shyly  over  the  mountain  top;  in  a  moment  more  a  line  of  liquid 
silver  -runs  along  the  crest  of  the  granite  mass,  a  beautiful 
gilding;  soon  a  burning  crescent  appears  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  sun,  full  faced,  is  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  rippling  lake. 

Eight  days  have  too  quickly  passed  since  our  arrival  in 
Yosemite.  As  we  stand  again  on  Inspiration  Point  for  a  fare- 
well view,  a  feeling  well  described  in  the  lines  of  L.  H.  Bun- 
nell, Yosemite's  discoverer,  comes  to  us: 

"But  now  farewell,  Yosemite: 
If  thou  api)ears  not  aj^ain  in  sight, 

Thou'lt  come,  1  know,  in  Hfe's  extremity 
While  passing  into  realms  of  light" 


THE  SLEIGH  BELLS.  15 


The  Sleigh  Bells. 

Hear  the  far  off  tiny  tinkle 

Of  the  sleigh  bells  as  they  sprinkle, 

Their  faint  tintinabulations  on  the  crisp 

and  frosty  air. 
While  the  snow  so  white  and  airy 
Like  the  death  shroud  of  a  fairy, 
Spreads  a  sparkling  diamond  carpet  'round  about 

us  everywhere. 

Hear  the  hoof-beats  sounding  nearer, 

And  the  laughter  ringing  clearer. 

As  the  steaming  steeds  sweep  past  us  like  the 

winter's  windy  blast. 
See  the  lovers  faces  beaming, 
And  their  fur  robes  backward  streaming 
Like  the  long  hair  of  Mazeppa  mounting  up 

the  mountain  pass. 

Sweet  the  youthful  silver  laughter, 

Sharp  the  house  dog's  barking  after, 

Beats  the  erstwhile  silent  night  air  into  throbbing 

waves  of  sound. 
Soft  the  silent  mellow  moonlight. 
Bright  the  sparkling  crystal  starlight. 
Harsh  the  horses  horny  hoofbeats  falling  on 

the  frozen  ground. 

They  have  passed  the  happy  people 
While  the  church  bell  in  the  steeple 
Strikes  the  silent  hour  of  midnight  to  the  country 

all  around. 
Softly  now  the  sleighbells  whisper. 
Soft  as  angels  song  at  vesper. 
Then  the  great  deep  gulf  of  silence  swallows  up 
the  waves  of  sound. 


16  A  LONELY  GRAVE. 


A  Lonely  Grave. 

Wandering  lonely  in  the  forest  shade, 
Par  from  dwelling  and  man's  abode, 

I  chanced  upon  a  lonely  grave, 

As  carefully  I  sought  my  devious  road. 

No  slab  of  marble  mai'ked  the  place. 
To  tell  of  good  deeds  that  were  done; 

By  him  who  slept,  had  closed  his  race. 

And  kejjt  his  rest  beneath  the  mossed  headstone, 

The  only  watchers  were  the  sturdy  oaks. 
The  only  mourners  were  the  sighing  pines. 

As  round  their  forms  they  drew  their  cloaks. 
More  beautiful  than  silk,  or  soft  ermine. 

Across  the  mound  the  shadows  fell 
As  if  to  shade  it  from  a  profane  eye. 

Who  slept  beneath  I  could  not  tell, 

Nor  was  the  secret  meant  for  such  as  I. 

Perchance  some  mother's  only  son. 

The  staff  and  comfort  of  her  age; 
Leaving  his  home  his  race  to  run. 

Without  the  narrow  limits  of  his  cage. 

Yet  if  not  this,  perhaps  a  brother. 
Meeting  his  death  in  this  sad  place. 

Was  mourned  by  sister,  most  a  mother. 

When  she  no  longer  could  his  footsteps  trace. 

Or  then  if  not,  mayhap  some  lover, 
Searching  for  fortune  and  for  fame, 

That  he  might  give  it  to  another. 

To  whose  long  willing  arms  he  never  came.    . 

But  whence  he  came  or  how  he  died. 

There's  to  tell  me  none  to  say. 
I'll  leave  him  sleeping  on  the  mountain  side, 

And  wander  weary  on  my  winding  way. 

Burrough,  Cal.,  April  1,  1894. 


BOHEMIAN  L  0  VE  SONG.  1 7 


Bohemian  Love  Song. 

We're  poor,  dear  heart,  but  we  will  feign 
That  we  a  castle  have  in  Spain. 
When  clouds  are  dark  and  storms  rao:e  high, 
Together  we  will  thither  fly. 
Around  it  spreads  the  living  green, 
Above  it  bends  the  smiling  sky. 
'Twas  meant,  dear  love,  that  you  and  I 
Should  reign  within  as  king  and  queen. 


We're  sad,  dear  heart,  but  we  will  feign 

That  we  a  castle  have  in  Spain, 

Where  tears  flow  not  and  hearts  are  light; 

Where  lips  are  red  and  eyes  are  bright. 

The  castle  walls  a  splendor  fling 

Upon  the  beauty-do  zzled  eye. 

'  Tis  meant,  my  love,  that  you  and  I 

Should  there  be  reigning  queen  and  king. 

We're  faint,  dear  heart,  but  we  will  feign 
That  we  a  castle  have  in  Spain. 
There  love  doth  yield  a  magic  spell 
And  faith  and  hope  together  dwell. 
The  windows  dance  a  diamond  sheen. 
The  slim  spires  sparkle  toward  the  sky. 
I'm  sure,  my  love,  that  you  and  I 
Shall  ere  long  reign  there  king  and  queen. 


Though  we  are  poor  and  sad  and  faint. 
And  most  o'ercome  by  sad  distraint. 
Mid  all,  my  love,  we'll  ever  feign 
That  we  a  castle  have  in  Spain. 


18  DESPATH. 


Despair, 

I  said  :     "  I'll  all  nqy  passions  satisfy, 
find  sn\otl-ieririg,  dro^r)  XYyew^  in  a  satiate  sea.'' 

Tl^is  I  find,  tlrie  rr\ore  I  gratify 
T]:|ey  greater  grow,  and  cl^oKing.  consUrne  rqe, 


BLACK  MAN  OR  WHITE.  W 


Black  Man  or  White. 

Robert  Burton  was  a  waiter  in  a  hotel  in  a  southern  city 
where  I  had  gone  to  spend  the  winter.  Almost  the  hrst  day  of 
my  stay  at  the  hotel  I  was  struck  with  Robert's  independent 
and  intelligent  face.  His  companion  waiters  were  all  negroes 
of  various  degrees  of  blackness,  but  so  white  was  Robert  that 
I  was  puzzled  to  know  whether  or  not  his  color  was  the  climatic 
tan  or  due  to  negro  blood.  His  bearing  and  conversation,  as  I 
became  better  acquainted  with  him  at  daily  meals,  left  me  in 
still  deeper  doubt.  For  a  person  in  his  position  and  of  his 
race  (if  indeed  he  was  a  negro)  he  seemed  so  gentlemanly,  so 
intelligent,  so  much  above  his  surroundings,  that,  I  at  last,  to 
satisfy  myself,  asked  him  whether  or  not  he  was  a  negro. 
Evidently  surprised  at  my  question  he  answered  calmly  in  the 
affirmative. 

"How  does  it  happen,  Robert,"  I  then  asked  him,  "that 
you  have  acquired  an  education?" 

"My  mother"  said  he,  "taught  me  a  great  many  things  in 
books  and  afterwards  master  gave  me  money  to  attend  a  school 
in  Ohio  for  two  years. " 

'  'But  how  does  it  come  you  are  now  a  hotel  waiter  when  you 
are  fitted  for  something  better?" 

He  flushed  at  this,  but  replied  firmly:  "My  benefactor  is 
dead.  Others  do  not  take  so  much  interest  in  me  as  he  did  and 
I  have  to  make  a  living  for  myself  and  mother. " 

"But  surely,"  I  went  on,  "you  need  not  do  such  work  as 
this.     Why   do  you  not  do  something  more   respectable  and 


W  BLA  CK  MAN  OR  WHITE. 

something  in  which  you  could  turn  your  education  to  account." 

"What  is  there  I  can  doy"  said  he.  "In  this  southern  country 
negroes  are  only  fit  for  servitude,  and  from  what  I  have  learned 
from  those  who  live  in  the  North  they  are  little  better  off 
there.  Do  you  know,"  he  continued,  and  with  a  touch  of  irony 
in  his  voice,  "of  any  negroes  in  your  state  who  hold  positions 
of  trust,  who  are  in  mercantile  business  for  themselves,  who 
are  clerks  or  shopkeepers  in  white  communities  y" 

I  answered  that  I  did  not,  and  as  the  conversation  was  ,2:row- 
ing  disagreeable  it  was  dropped. 

That  night  I  thought  much  of  what  Robert  Burton  had  said. 
I  had  taken  a  strong  liking  to  him.  'Negroes  are  only  tit  for 
servitude,'  again  and  again  this  saying  came  to  my  mind. 
Alas,  it  was  too  true.  Visiting  the  curses  of  che  fathers  upon 
the  children,  not  only  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation,  but 
through  countless  ages.  It  did  not  seem  just,  yet  it  was 
natural  and  true.  He  was  a  man  with  only  a  tinge  of  slave 
blood  ill  his  veins,  but  for  that  he  was  condemned  to  serve. 

At  last  I  thought  of  a  plan  whereby  at  least  this  one  might 
escape  the  curse  that  rested  on  his  fathers. 

"Robert,"  I  said  the  next  evening,  "come  to  my  room 
to-night,  when  your  worn  is  done.  I  have  something  to  say  -to 
you.  "At  nine  o'clock  he  was  there.  For  a  while  we  talked 
on  general  topics  and  I  found  that  his  range  of  knowledge  was 
wider  than  many  an  educated  man  of  the  superior  race.  At 
last  I  had  him  tell  me  of  himself. 

"I  was  born,"  he  said,  "in  southern  Georgia.  My  mother 
was  the  nearly  white  child  of  a  half  white  woman.  Strange  as 
it  may  seem,  she  was  fairly  well  educated.  By  some  means 
she  had  learned  to  read  when  a  mere  child,  in  the  family  of  a 
man  who  was  remarkably  kind  to  his  slaves.  Later  she  was 
sold  to  a  man  whose  name  I  can  not  give  you,  for  I  have  heard 
he  was  my  father.  I  can  only  say  that  he  was  an  ambitious 
and  intelligent  man,  and  was  afterwards  governor  of  Georgia. 
Whether  this  man  was  my  father  or  not,  I  do  not  know,  but  of 


BLACK  MAN  OR  WHITE. 


all  his  slaves  none  were  treated  with  so  much  consideration  as 
my  mother  except  me  alone.  He  had  no  children  by  his  wife, 
yet  he  treated  me  more  as  a  child  than  a  slave,  and  was  careful 
to  see  that  I  had  little  to  do  and  leisure  to  study  and  read, 
which  I  was  always  eager  to  do.  When  I  was  fifteen  I  was  f et 
free  by  the  war  and  he  sent  me  to  an  Ohio  school.  I  stayed 
there  until  his  death  three  years  ago.  I  am  now  twenty,  but 
compelled  to  make  my  own  living,  as  all  the  large  estate  of 
my  master  was  taken  for  debt." 

When  he  had  finished,  I  thought'  for  a  moment,  and,  looking 
steadily  at  him,  I  said:  "Robert,  how  would  you  like  to  be  a 
white  man?" 

For  an  answer  I  received  only  an  incredulous  and  cynical 
smile.  Evidently  he  thought  I  was  making  fun  of  him.  I 
assured  him  I  meant  what  I  said. 

"How — what  can  you  mean,  Mr.  Arnold?"  he  asked. 

"Simply  this  is  what  I  mean:  I  live  in  Minnesota.  It  is  a 
new  country,  settled  by  people  from  all  over  the  world.  There 
you  will  never  be  taken  for  other  than  a  white  man,  which  in 
reality  you  are.  I  have  a  law  ofiice  in  Minneapolis.  You  shall 
study  law  under  me.  Later  you  shall  be  my  partner.  What 
do  you  say?" 

He  had  sprung  to  his  feet  before  I  finished  and  stood  like  a 
man  of  stone.  In  a  moment  joy  overspread  his  face  and  ambi- 
tion gleamed  in  his  eyes.  I  had  not  mistaken  my  man.  There 
was  a  deal  of  Anglo-Saxon  blood  in  Robert  Burton's  veins. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  "how  can  I  ever  thank  you?  But  it 
can't  be  true.  Can  a  man  in  a  moment  throw  olf  the  taint  of 
slavery,  of  superstition,  of  savagery  and  stand  transformed  and 
transfigured,  a  man?  And  yet  I  must  do  it.  I  will,  with  God's* 
help  and  yours,  Mr.  Arnold.  I'll  cast  aside  the  livery  of 
servitude  and  put  on  the  livery  of  freedom.  Freedom,  Mr, 
Arnold,  means  nothing  unless  we  are  peers  of  our  fellow  men. 
We  negroes;  no,  I'll  not  say  we;  but  the  negroes  are  politically 
free,  but  are  moral  and  social  slaves.     The  negro  in  me  would 


n  LACK  MAX  OJ!  WIlITi:. 


sink  me  into  slavery  again,  but  the  white  blood  in  my  veins 
bids  me  conquer  and  I  will." 

With'  face  still  beaming  with  such  joy  as  can  light  only  a 
freeman's  countenance,  he  grasped  my  hand  and  wrung  it  in 
frenzied  gratitude.  But  suddenly  he  dropped  his  head,  let  my 
ha*iid  slip  from  his  and  almost  staggert^d  to  the  door. 

"It  cannot  be!  Oh  God!  It  cannot  be!"  he  cried  and  hastened 
away. 

I  had  entered  into  the  plan  of  his  becoming  a  freeman  with 
almost  as  much  enthusiasm  as  Robert  himself.  His  sudden 
happiness  was  shared  by  me.  Why  he  had  so  suddenly  become 
downcast,  I  could  not  explain.  When  I  saw  him  the  next 
morning  at  his  accustomed  place  his  face  bore  traces  of  a 
mighty  struggle.  A  struggle  as  of  life  and  death  between  the 
suj^erior  and  inferior  man.  I  spoke  to  him,  but  made  no  men- 
tion of  our  talk  the  night  before.  All  day  I  thought  of  his 
strange  conduct  and  at  night  had  reached  no  conclusion.  I 
went  to  my  room  still  thinking  of  him,  when,  having  turned 
the  matter  over  and  over  in  my  mind,  I  remembered  that  I  had 
often  seen  him  on  the  streets  with  a  young  woman,  and  a 
woman  that  would  have  been  called  white  had  one  not  known 
she  had  slave  blood  in  her  veins.  Here  then  was  the  solution 
of  the  mystery.  It  was  the  thought  of  leaving  her  that  had 
taken  the  desire  for  place  and  freedom  out  of  him. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  In  response  to  my  invitation 
Robert  Burton  walked  in.  I  could  see  at  once  that  the  strug- 
gle was  still  going  on. 

"When  I  left  you  last  night,  Mr.  Arnold,  I  tokl  you  I  coukl 
not  go  with  you." 

"Is  love  stronger  than  ambition?"  I  asked. 

"Then  you  have  guessed  my  secret,"  he  exclaimed,  "you 
have  pointed  out  to  me  the  path  of  freedom  and  honor,  you 
have  shown  me  how  to  cast  the  shackles  of  slavery  aside. 
Place,  fame  and  desire  to  be  a  man  of  the  stature  of  my  fellows 
beckon  me  on.     But  love  for  a  woman,   a  woman  with  no  more 


BLACK  MAN  OR  WHITE. 


slave  in  her  than  there  is  in  me,  a  love,  Mr.  Arnold,  that  is  as 
deep  as  my  soul,  binds  me  in  chains.  How  shall  I  decide? 
Shall  I  follow  the  way  you  have  po'inted  out?  shall  I  crush  a 
heart  that  is  full  of  love  for  me?  or  shall  I  remain  as  I  now 
am,  a  slave?  Love  with  bonds  strong  as  steel  binds  me  here, 
ambition  with  seemingly  irresistable  power  tugs  at  those 
bonds.  What  shall  I  do,  Mr.  Arnold,  how  shall  I  decide?" 
Exhausted  and  in  tears  Robert  Burton  sank  into  a  chair. 

And,  my  reader,  would  you  have  me  tell  you  how  he  decided? 
You  know,  no  doubt,  the  power  of  love  and  it  may  be  you  know 
ambitions  strength.  Picture  to  yourself  the  difference  between 
the  honored  professional  man  and  the  serving  man.  You 
could  easily  choose  there.  Imagine  the  pain  of  separating 
from  the  one  dearer  to  you  than  goods  or  gold  and  the  pleasure 
of  peaceful  and  continued  companionship  with  that  one. 
Again  you  can  decide.  But  if  you  were  called  to  choose  one 
and  endure  the  other,  how  would  you  decide? 


A  LITTLE  FLIRT. 


A  Little  Flirt. 

I  met  her  on  the  cars, 

And  she  was  fair  to  see; 
I  smiled  across  the  seats  at  her, 

And  she  smiled  back  at  me. 

She  had  a  jolly  dimple, 

And  a  twinkle  in  her  eye 
That  came  near  to  being  naughty, 

And  that's  twixt  you  and  I. 

I  threw  a  loving  kiss  at  her. 
While  she  did  laugh  with  glee, 

And  from  her  rosy  finger  tips 
She  tossed  it  back  to  me. 

I'm  heels  o'er  head  in  love  with  her 

As  sure  as  I'm  alive. 
Although  she  is  but  three  years  old. 

And  I  am  thirty-five. 


MINNEHAHA. 


Minnehaha. 

Minnehaha  is  a  small  stream  near  Minneapolis,  Minnesota. 
Minnehaha  Falls,  a  few  miles  east  of  the  city,  are  made  classi- 
cally famous  by  Longfellow's  Hiawatha.  Many  rich  historical 
associations  also  cluster  round  the  spot. 

Here  it  is  the  first  white  settlers  were  made  to  run  the 
gauntlet  and  here  it  is  that  not  a  score  of  years  ago  the  prima- 
tive  Indians,  held  their  war  dances.  The  immediate  surround- 
ings have  been  changed  into  a  park  but  the  falls  and  the 
stream  are  the  same  as  when  Hiawatha  dreamed  and  loved  here 
years  ago. 

Minnehaha,  laughing  water, 

I  am  sitting  by  yoiir  side, 
And  I  watch  the  crystal  fountains. 

As  among  the  rocks  they  glide. 

O'er  your  falls  the  water's  rushing, 

While  I  near  the  famous  place. 
And  the  cooling  mist  from  off  them 

Gently  sprinkles  in  my  face. 

Round  your  falls  the  ivy's  twining 
And  the  white  birch  gently  waves. 

Still  the  ones  who  loved  you  dearest 
Now  are  sleeping  in  their  graves. 

Here  it  was  that  Hiawatha, 

Dreamed  of  love  in  days  gone  by, 

Thought  of  those  he  loved  and  cherished, 
Thoughts,  silent  thoughts,  which  -never  die, 

k 

Surely  naught  could  be  more  pleasant. 
Where  the  sparkling  water  flowed. 

Than  to  dream  of  absent  loved  ones, 
Safe  in  care  of  Him  above. 


Se  MINNEHAHA. 


'Tis  no  wonder  Hiawatha 

Left  his  quiet  feeding  flocks, 
Came  to  watch  the  laughing  water, 

As  it  dashed  among  the  rocks. 

Minnehaha  I  must  leave  you. 

But  the  parting  causes  pain, 
I  like  Hiawatha  love  you, 

Though  but  once  your  banks  I've  seen. 

All  my  wandering  hence  may  never 

Bring  me  back  again  to  you. 
But  I'll  love  you  ever,  ever, 

Au  revoir,  riiais  sans  adieu. 


MAMMTS BOY 


Mammy  s  Boy. 

"Good  bye,  Creston." 

"Good  bye,  father." 

It  was  farmer  Dillon  who  had  brought  his  son  down  to  Bel- 
dan  College  at  the  beginning  of  the  fall  term  in  188 — .  The 
farmer  had  one  sunburned  arm  around  the  boy's  neck  as  he 
stood  on  the  boarding  house  steps  bidding  him  good  bye. 
Such  a  contrast  as  there  was  between  the  two;  the  one  strong 
and  brawny,  the  other  pale  and  delicate,  more  like  a  lad  from 
the  crowded  city  than  one  from  the  country  where  scorching 
sun  and  arduous  labor  tend  to  toughen  the  sinews.  The  boy 
was  in  fact  but  the  reflection  of  his  invalid  mother,  who  for 
years  had  done  no  other  work  than  to  aid  her  son  in  his  strug- 
gle for  an  education.  There  were  tears  in  the  boy's  eyes  as  he 
bade  his  father  farewell. 

"See  the  innocent,"  said  one  of  a  crownl  of  students  loung- 
ing about  the  yard. 

"Reckon  he  never  was  away  from  home  before,"  said  another, 

"Mammy's  boy,"  remarked  a  third,  and  so  well  to  the  boys' 
minds  did  this  name  fit  the  newcomer  that  he  was  afterwards 
known  by  that  name  alone.  He  was  an  innocent  looking 
youth,  yet  withal  something  manly  in  his  pale  face  and  a  more 
than  passing  intelligence  in  his  dark  eyes. 

I  fear  he  was  very  ignorant  of  college  life,  for  when 
one  of  the  boys  asked  him,  a  few  days  later,  if  he  had 
l)rought  bis  pony  with  him  he  said  he  had  not  as  his 
father  thought  it  would  cost  too  much  to  keep  it  in  town. 
And  I  think  "cribbing'"  called  to  his  mind  no  other  perfor- 
mance than  the  work  he  had  so  often  seen  his  father  do  in 
storing  away  the  yearly  crop  of  corn.  When  his  father  was 
gone  Creston  went  to  his  room  and  cried  himself  to  sleep. 
Foolish  boy,  yes  but  boys'  hearts  are  tender.  The  next  days 
were  trying  too.  The  new  experiences,  the  jests  of  the  other 
boys,  the  interminable  lessons,   these  were  the  thorns  in  the 


28  MAMMTS  BOY. 


tlesh.  Two  weeks  passed.  Creston  Dillon  had  not  made  many- 
friends  among:  the  students. 

"Come  and  have  a  game  of  cards,"  said  Dick  Braston  to  him 
one  evening  after  sujjper. 

"I    don't  play.     Mother  says  it's  wicked,"  was  the  reply. 

"Mammy's  boy,"  .said  Dick  as  he  went  off  to  find  a  more  conge- 
nial comi)anion.  A  proposal  to  join  in  a  raid  ujwn  a  neighbor- 
ing orchard  met  with  a  similar  refusal. 

"I'm  afraid  that  Dillon  thinks  he's  just  a  little  too  good  for 
us,"  commented  Adrian  Stanton,  familiarly  known  to  the  boys 
as  "Rex,"  because,  I  suppose,  he  was  always  ruler  in  any  band 
of  mischief-hunting  boys  of  the  college. 

"Let's  haze  him,"  suggested  Phil.   Braxton. 

It  must  have  been  an  evil  genius  that  put  this  thought 
into  Phil's  head  at  that  ^larticular  moment.  The  proposition 
met  with  general  approval.  I  would  not  have  you  think  these 
were  a  lot  of  heartless  boys.  They  were  not.  but  they"  were 
sometimes  thoughtless.  So  it  was  decided  to  haze  Creston 
Dillon,  but  how  were  they  to  get  hold  of  him?  He,  by  some 
means  had  heard  that  the  boys  meant  to  haze  him,  and  to  the 
inexperienced  boy  this  was  supposed  to  be  a  horrible  exj^er- 
ience.  He  never  ventured  forth  from  his  room  after  dark.  It 
was  Friday  night  the  week  following  the  raiding  expedition 
that  a  crowd  of  boys  gathered  on  the  college  campus.  They 
were  in  excellent  spirits  and  bent  on  having  some  fun. 

"Now,  if  we  only  had  the  duffer  hero,"  said  one,  "we'd  have 
some  fun.'" 

"Say  boys,  lefs  not  haze  that  fellow,  I'm  afraid  we'll 
scare  him  out  of  his  wits,"  said  Joe  Barton,  sometimes  called 
tenderfoot. 

"Shut  up  3'our  face,  kid,""  was  Rex  Staat()n"s  answer.  "It 
will  do  him  good;  make  him  tough,  but  then  I  don"t  see  how 
we  are  to  get  him  out,"  he  added. 

"I've  got  the  scheme'"  spoke  Dick  Braston.     "I'll  go  and  tell 


MAMMY'S  BOY. 


him  the  students  are  havino:  a  prayer  meetino:  to-nig-lit  and 
want  him  to  come.  That'll  fetch  the  chump.  Why,  he  reads 
his  Bible  and  says  his  prayers  every  nio'ht. " 

"Go  ahead,  then,"  said  Rex,  "and  don't  be  long,  I'm  achins^ 
for  some  fun." 

The  "scheme"  evidently  worked,  for  in  a  few  minutes  Dick 
and  Creston  were  seen  entering  the  campus  gate.  They 
walked  on  until  witliin  a  few  feet  of  a  clum  of  elms  that  shaded 
the  grounds. 

"Are  there  many  boys  attend  the — "  Creston  was  saying  when 
a  half  dozen  boys  seized  him  and  began  to  tie  his  hands  and 
feet. 

"Don't,  boys,  j^lease  don't,"  he  begged,  his  pale  face  growing 
paler  still,  and  his  heart  beating  as  if  it  would  byrst  his  bosom. 

"Keej:)  still  and  it  will  be  better  for  you,"  said  Phil.  Braxton. 

Soon  they  had  him  tied  hand  and  foot. 

"What  will  we  do  with  him,"  asked  one. 

"Let's  duck  him  in  the  water  and  cool  him  off,"  was  Stan- 
ton's suggestion.  "The  water's  getting  cold  now  and  a  cold 
bath  is  good  for  weak  people. " 

The  crowd  started  off  for  the  river,  three  or  four  of  the  boys 
carrying  Creston.  Of  course  the  boys  did  not  mean  to  put  him 
in  the  river,  but  he  did  not  know  that. 

"Now  boys,"  said  the  leader,  "I'll  count  three  and  in  he 
goes."  "Ready,  one,"  the  boy  made  a  feeble  effort  to  break 
his  bonds,  "two,"'  a  shudder  ran  through  his  frame,  "three." 

At  three  the  boys  made  an  extra  effort  as  though  they  meant 
to  cast  him  far  into  the  stream,  and  some  one  threw  a  huge 
chunk  of  wood  into  the  water  with  a  splash.  The  boys  dropped 
their  burden  to  the  ground.  The  moon  strayed  out  from 
behind  a  cloud  and  shone  upon  the  face  of  Creston  Dillon.  It 
was  very  white.  "He's  fainted!  Bring  some  water,  quick!" 
cried  Rex  Stanton.  But  mammy's  boy  had  not  fainted.  He 
was  dead.     They  do  not  haze  at  Beldan  College  now. 


30  LOTTIE  BOON. 


Lottie  Doon. 

"No  more  the  ani^els  come  to  earth," 

I've  heard  them  say. 
This  was  in  truth  my  thoui^ht 

Until  to-day. 
Rut  now  I  know  they  come 

A  brii^ht  boon, 
For  I  have  seen  thy  face, 

Lottie  Doon. 

Not  of  earth  were  you  born 

This  I  know. 
You  winc:ed  your  way  from  heaven 

To  us  below. 
Your  smile  would  change  e'en  midiiij^iit 

Into  noon. 
It  has  banished  all  my  sorrow, 

Lottie  Doon. 

There  is  beauty  in  your  face. 

This  is  true. 
But  'tis  not  half  the  beauty 

Seen  in  you. 
Your  cheeks  are  like  the  roses 

Blown  in  June, 
Yet  more  beautiful  your  soul, 

Lottie  Doon . 

For  your  soul  shines  in  your  face 

Gladdening  all. 
And  to  worship  at  your  fet;t 

I  would  fall. 
Your  ])athway  all  through  life 

SluiU  be  strewn 
Whith  sweet  llowers  of  adoration, 

Lottie  Doon. 


LOTTIE  BOON.  SI 


All  homage  you  will  ask 

Shall  be  given, 
Ere  from  us  you  shall  go 

Back  to  heaven. 
Earth's  harps  will  for  you  play 

A  glad  tune, 
If  with  us  you  will  stay, 

Little  Doon. 


THE  SPRING  'NEATH  THE  OLD  GUM  TREE. 


The  Spring  'Neath  the  Old  Gum  Tree. 

There's  many  a  spot  on  the  old  home  place, 
That  I'm  wishing  and  lon^'in^  to  see, 

But  the  dearest  of  all  is  the  meadow  lot 
And  the  spring  'neath  the  old  gum  tree. 

At  the  harvest  noon  when  the  wheat  in  the  fields 

Waved  a  billowy,  golden  sea, 
Round  the  clover  heads  the  bumble  bees  croon 

15y  the  spring  'neath  the  old  gum  tree. 

Oh!  the  shade  was  sweet  and  the  grass  was  green. 

While  merry  harvesters  we. 
Spent  a  happy  noon  hour  when  we  used  to  meet 

Near  the  S]jring  'neath  the  old  gum  tree. 

Then  many  a  jest  went  'round  the  group. 

Our  hearts  were  happy  and  free. 
There  sang  we  the  songs  that  we  loved  best 

13y  the  spring  'neath  the  old  gum  tree. 

The  spring  bubbled  up  with  a  laugh  on  its  lips. 

And  danced  away  to  the  sea; 
While  again  and  again  we  tilled  the  cup 

From  the  spring  'neath  the  old  gum  tree. 

But  those  days  are  lied  in  the  din  of  life, 

And  never  more  shall  I  be. 
With  the  harvesters  of  then,  who  now  are  dead. 

By  the  spring  'neath  the  old  gum  tree. 

So  there's  many  a  spot  on  the  old  home  place 
That  I'm  wishing  and  longing  to  see, 

But  the  dearest  of  all  is  the  meadow  lot 
And  the  spring  'neath  the  old  gum  tree. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  NORTHLAND. 


A  Song  of  the  Northland. 

Let  others  sing  of  fair  southern  hinds, 
Where  gentle  breezes  with  lily  hands 
Play  with  the  shining  magnolia  leaves, 
Or  kiss  the  blossoms  of  orange  trees. 

As  for  me,  I  will  sing  of  the  Northland  cold, 
Where  men  are  daring  and  brave  and  bold. 
And  the  giants  come  in  the  winter  time 
Bedecked  with  the  frost  of  Jotunheira. 

No  feeling  of  languor  pulses  there; 

There  men  are  brave  to  do  and  dare. 

They  build  not  castles  in  idle  dreams; 

Their  cozy  homes  smile  when  the  glad  sun  beams. 

There  the  blood  flows  quick  and  the  heart  beats  fast, 
And  cheeks  grow  ruddy  in  wintry  blast.     • 
There  the  brain  is  clear  and  thoughts  are  free; 
Oh,  the  Northland,  cold  and  bold! 
Oh!  Northland  cold  for  me! 

Prom  such  a  land  came  the  Norsemen  bold, 
From  a  land  of  rime  and  frost  and  cold. 
Forth  they  fared  on  the  stormy  sea. 
While  the  storm  king  laughed  in  his  savage  glee. 

Naught  they  feared  from  the  raging  sea 

As  forth  they  fared  right  merrily. 

The  strength  of  Winter  was  in  their  hands 

And  the  frost  bound  their  muscles  with  iron  bands. 

I  love  the  Northland's  winter  time. 

The  clink  of  skates  and  the  sleighbell's  chime. 

Let  others  dream  'neath  the  orange  tree. 

But  the  Northland,  cold  and  bold ! 

Oh,  Northland  cold  for  me! 


MY  PJVAL. 


My  Rival. 

"Are  you  sure  you  love  only  me,  my  darling?" 

"Yes,  only  you,  and  you  with  all  my  heart." 

I  was  bidding  sweet  Edena  good  night.  I  had  just  proposed 
to  her  and  been  accepted.  She  formed  a  beautiful  picture  as 
she  stood  there  on  the  step  in  the  milky  moonlight,  her  beau- 
tiful hair,  wavy  as  the  silk  upon  the  corn,  falling  carelessly 
around  her  fair  neck  and  shoulders.  My  heart  beat  a  love 
rhyme  as  I  looked  upon  her. 

In  my  long  acquaintance  with  Edena  I  had  never  known  her 
to  tell  me  other  than  the  truth.  How  could  I  know  that  the 
soul  that  looked  out  of  those  eyes,  sparkli^ig,  as  I  thought, 
with  love,  was  that  of  an  Annanias?  She  had  said  that  she 
loved  me  and  I  believed  it.  Oh,  the  cruel  time  when  I  was 
undeceived!    But  let  me  not  too  soon  tell  my  story. 

Edena  had  promised  that  she  would  be  my  wife  and  I  was 
very  happy.  J)uring  our  courtship  I  had  been  a  frequent  caller 
at  her  home.  After  our  engagement  I  went  more  often.  Time 
glided  by  in  his  golden  wheeled  chariot  and  almost  a  year  had 
passed  since  our  engagement.  I  felt  confident  that  I  still  held 
tirst  place  in  my  love's  heart.     The  time  for  our  wedding  was 

but  two  weeks  oif. 

I  had  been  busy  in  my  office  all  day,  and  in  the  evening 
sought  the  home  of  my  sweetheart,  anticipating  a  pleasant 
time.  Then  it  was  I  tirst  saw  my  rival.  He  sat  calmly  on  the 
sofa  beside  Edena  where  I  had  so  often  sat.  She  rose  and 
gave  me  a  kiss  of  greeting,  but  he,  curse  him,  made  no  sign  of 
giving  me  his  place.  Edena  again  took  her  seat  beside  him. 
I  flung  myself  into  a  rocker  and  tried  to  ignore  his  presence. 
But  I  could  not  talk.  Jealousy  was  continually  biting  my 
heart.  It  is  a  soul- trying  position  to  be  with  the  one  you  love 
and  that  in  the  presence  of  one  you  hate  with  all  the  bitterness 
of  your  nature.  I  could  not  make  myself  agreeable,  and  though 
it  was  only  occasionally  that  my  love  deigned  to  notice  my 
rival  with  some  remark,  I  grew  angrier  every  minute. 


MY  RIVAL.  36 


In  an  hour  I  asked  for  my  hat  and  overcoat  and  started 
home.  Edena  saw  that  I  was  troubled  and  asked  the  cause. 
I  made  some  evasive  answer,  and  as  I  went  out  at  the  door  I 
cast  a  malignant  glance  back  at  him  who  I  thought  was  trying 
to  rob  me  of  my  heart's  treasure.  His  answering  look  was  one 
of  confident  insolence.  A  formal  handshake  and  a  coldly 
spoken  good  night  was  the  only  parting  I  took  of  Edena  that 
evening.  I  usually  kissed  her  affectionately  at  parting,  but  to- 
night my  lips  felt  cold  as  ice  and  I  was  sensible  of  a  feeling  of 
repugnance  for  her,  as  I  thought  perhaps  slie  had  lately  kissed 
another. 

When  I  reached  my  room  I  could  not  sleep.  Had  there  been 
ten  thousand  demons  in  my  bed  they  could  not  have  tormented 
me  more  than  did  that  single  gnawing,  jealous  feeling.  Morn- 
ing came  and  I  went  to  my  work  with  a  heavy  heart.  My 
thoughts  continually  reverted  to  the  parlor  where  I  had  spent 
the  evening  before,  and  all  the  while  the  face  of  my  rival  came 
up  before  me  like  a  hateful  vision  in  a  sweet  dream.  To  love 
and  to  know  that  one  is  loved;  O,  how  it  lightens  the  labors  of 
life!  But  to  be  jealous  and  hate,  burns  one  to  cinder.  When 
evening  came  my  anguish  was  unbearable  and  I  determined  to 
go  again  to  Edena,  tell  her  my  feelings  and  ask  her  to  choose 
between  us.  I  of  course  expected  to  find  her  alone.  What 
was  my  chagrin  when  upon  again  entering  the  parlor  I  saw  my 
rival  in  the  same  place — once  mine — as  he  had  had  the  evening 
before.  My  soul  rose  up  in  protest.  I  felt  like  turning  upon 
my  heel  and  leaving  at  once.  I  sat  down,  however,  in  a  chair 
and  tried  to  start  up  a  conversation. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  Edena  was  not  near  so  lavish  of  her 
attention  to  me  as  she  used  to  be,  while  more  and  more,  as  I 
fancied,  she  gave  attention  to  my  rival.  Every  word  she 
spoke  to  him  made  my  heart  beat  more  angrily  and  my  breath 
come  harder.  But  Edena  seemed  not  to  mind.  She  continued 
her  attention  to  him,  seeing,  as  I  thought,  that  it  taunted  me. 
Suddenly,  as  if  to  insult  me  more  deeply,  she  placed  her  arms 


36  MY  RIVAL. 


around  his  neck  and  before  my  very  face  kissed  him! 

This  was  more  than  I  could  brook.  My  face  flamed  and  my 
eyelids  trembled  with  answer.  I  jumped  up  from  my  seat  and 
grasped  my  hat  and  started  for  the  door. 

"  Edena, "  cried  I,  as  I  paused  a  moment  at  the  threshold, 
"  Fare  you  well.  I  believed  you  loved  me,  me  only.  I  have 
l)Oon  deceived.     May  I  never  look  upon  your  face  again."' 

"O,  Jerald!"  she  exclaimed,  springing  to  her  feet  and  cast- 
ing him  from  her  arms,  "  What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

I  made  an  eifort  to  go,  but  her  velvety  arms  were  around 
my  neck.  I  thought  of  the  night  I  stood  on  the  steps — the 
night  after  our  engagement.  I  thought  how  beautiful  she  was 
til  en.  She  was  more  beautiful  now.  I  did  not  mean  to  do  it, 
but  some  irresistable  power  made  me  print  a  kiss  on  her  soft 
cherry  lips.  Her  arms  came  tighter  around  my  neck.  Then  I 
wondered  if  I  had  not  been  very  foolish  to  be  so  jealous — yes, 
so  jealous — of  only  a  pug. 


TN  WEST  VIRGINIA.  37 


In  West  Virginia. 

In  West  Virginia  skies  are  blue, 
The  hills  are  green  and  hearts  are  true; 
A  joyous  welcome  waiteth  you, 
In  West  Virginia. 

In  West  Virginia  skies  are  bright, 
The  twiniding  stars  make  glad  the  night; 
And  noble  hearts  uphold  the  right. 
In  West  Virginia. 

In  West  Virginia,  happy  beams 
The  sun  that  kisses  crystal  streams. 
Enduring  love  is  what  it  seems, 
In  West  Virginia. 

In  West  Virginia  there  is  rest 
For  tempest-tossed  and  sore  distressed, 
Hero  loving  hearts  are  ever  blest, 
In  West  Virginia. 

In  West  Virginia  man  is  free; 
He  dwells  beneath  his  own  roof- tree; 
Oh  come,  my  love,  and  dwell  with  me. 
In  West  Virsrinia. 


.;,s'  REaOTjLRCriONS  OF  AN  OLD  BACHELOR. 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Bachelor. 

All  old  baclielor,  to  the  minds  of  many,  is  a  useless  but  neces- 
sary evil.  Something  not  unendurable,  yet  not  to  be  admired. 
He  is  considered  as  something  left  over,  a  by-product  of  the 
refining  i3rocesses  of  society,  as  it  were.  His  heart  must  of 
course  be  of  marble,  travertine  or  some  like  substance,  else  he 
had  long  ago  succumbed  to  the  circumventive  wiles  of  some 
fair  charmer  and  would  now  have  a  band  of  tiny  prattlers 
around  his  knee.  His  lot  (provided  he  owns  a  trap  and  fine 
horses)  will  not  be  entirely  desolate.  Many  will  be  the  girls 
who  will  vote  him  awful  nice  because  he  has  taken  them  on  a 
pleasant  trip,  and  he  will  receive  many  a  smile  as  he  drives 
along  the  street  lifting  his  hat— a  shining  bald  head  coming 
into  view  as  he  does  so — to  those  fair  ones  who  lean  out  of  the 
window  to  see  him  pass. 

Then  he  will  have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  the  debutantes 
into  the  circle  of  society.  He  used  to  be  a  beau  of  their  mam- 
ma's and  is  and  old  friend  of  the  family,  you  know.  Besides 
all  this  he  furnishes  a  haven  of  rest  for  the  half  dozen  old 
maids  of  the  village,  who  have  either  wrecked  their  affections 
upon  some  heartless  wretch,  or  else,  for  reasons  best  known  to 
themselves,  have  never  set  out  on  the  sea  of  love,  whose  shores 
are  banked  with  roses  and  whose  isles  yield  the  perfume  of  the 
oi-ange  blossom,  yet  in  whose  depths  are  dark  and  hidden 
wrecking  rocks.  For  these,  I  say,  he  is  a  source  of  comfort, 
for  his  heart  stretched  by  the  expanding  inlluence  of  many 
loves  is  ample  for  them  all,  and  then  he  is  about  their  age  and 
might  get  married. 

He  is  likely  to  be  a  good  talker  and  could  tell  many  a  strange 
tale  if  he  would  about  his  adventures  in  divers  parts  of  the 
world;  for  he  has  traveled  far  and  wide  and  has  seen  the  bon 
ton  of  Paris. 

As  I  sit  in  my  room  this  winter's  evening  with  my  feet  to  the 
fire,  and  as  the  winds  hold  a  howling  concert   on   the   outside. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  OL.D  BACHELOR.  39 

my  thoughts  turn  hiward  and  I  hold  a  reverie  with  myself. 
My  pipe  has  sent  my  brain  into  a  half  dreamland,  and  as  the 
rings  of  smoke  curl  up  from  it  I  see  strange — not  strange,  but 
almost  forgotten  faces — framed  in  its  wreaths.  There  is  a 
little  golden-haired  girl  of  four  or  five,  and  she  smiles  at  me 
shyly.  Ah,  where  have  I  seen  that  face?  I  remember  now, 
but  she  has  vanished.  In  that  wider  ring  I  see  another  face; 
this  time  the  hair  is  dark  and  the  eyes  have  a  womanly  look. 
There  is  a  meaning  in  those  eyes,  though  they  have  dwelt  upon 
the  beauties  of  but  sixteen  summers.  I  think  I  know  the  face; 
let  me  look  again — pshaw !  it  has  disappeared  and  another  takes 
its  place.  A  woman,  this;  and  from  a  wreath  of  smoke  a  mass 
of  dark  brown  curls  fall  out  and  a  pair  of  big,  brown  eyes  gaze 
with  no  unfriendly  meaning  into  my  face.  I  will  speak  to  her, 
but — she  is  gone. 

Here  no  wreath  of  smoke,  only  a  huge  cloud  of  it,  but  in  that 
cloud  I  see  a  pair  of  eyes — fascinatingly  dark  and  dangerous. 
A  face  of  a  rosy-cheeked,  dark  brunette  is  half  visible  through 
the  smoke.  In  an  instant  another,  very  like  the  first,  appears 
beside  it.  I  feel  my  heart  beat  quickly  as  I  look  upon  these 
beautiful  visions.  Which  is  the  most  beautiful?  A  heart 
rending  cry  of  pain  caused  me  to  drop  my  pipe  and  I  awoke 
startled  from  my  dream. 

I  felt  a  knife;  it  seemed  to  graze  my  cheek.  I  put  my  hand 
to  my  face.  Yes,  there  was  an  ugly  cut,  but  it  was  long  ago 
healed  and  nothing  but  the  scar  remained.  I  then  knew  I  had 
been  in  a  land  of  dreams  and  not  one  of  realities.  But  what  of 
the  faces  I  had  seen?  Ah,  they  were  those  of  persons  closely 
linked  with  my  life. 


J^O  SHOOTING  STABS. 


Shooting  Stars, 

(From  th.'  French  of  BoninKcr.) 

Shepherd,  say  you  that  in  the  skies 

Gleams  the  star  that  oruides  our  sail? 
'Tis  so,  my  child,  but  from  our  eyes 

Nitifht  hifles  that  star  within  her  veil. 
Sheijherd,  "tis  thought  with  mystic  arts 

You  read  the  secret  of  the  skies; 
Wiiat  is  that  star  that  downward  darts, 

Which  darts,  darts  and  darting  dies? 

My  child,  an  erring  mortal  dies, 

And  instant  downward  shoots  his  star. 
He  di-ank  and  sang  amid  the  cries 

Of  friends  whose  joys  no  hatred  mars. 
Happy  he  sleeps,  nor  moves  nor  starts, 

After  the  wine  he  quiet  lies — 
Another  star  is  seen  which  darts, 

Which  darts,  darts  and  darting  dies. 

My  child,  see  that  one  pure  and  sweet, 

A  lovely  vision,  charming  all, 
A  faithful  bride,  'tis  well  and  meet 

H(u-  lover  leads  her  from  the  hall. 
Flowers  bind  her  brow  with  skillful  arts 

And  spread  the  marriage  feast  now  lies- 
Keholdl  a  beauteous  star  w^hich  darts, 

Which  darts,  darts  and  darting  dies. 

My  son,  you  see  that  flashing  light? 

"Tis  of  a  great  lord  new  to  earth. 
The  cradle  vacant  from  his  flight 

Was  decked  with  purple  at  his  birth. 
The  poisons  sold  in  flattery's  marts 

A])peased  his  hunger,  hushed  his  cries— 
"Tis  but  another  star  which  darts. 

Which  shooting,  darts  and  darting  dies. 


SHOOT  TNG  STARS. 


U 


My  child,  behold  that  sinister  spark, 

A  cherished  favorite's  guiding  star. 
Who  thouj^ht  it  was  the  great  man's  mark 

To  laugh  at  ills  that  others  mar. 
By  those  who  bowed  with  servile  hearts 

His  image  now  all  shattered  lies, 
Another  star  which  earthward  darts, 

Which  darts,  darts  and  darting  dies. 

And  lo!  that  of  the  mighty  czar! 

But  go,  my  son,  guard  well  the  truth, 
Nor  empty  glitter  mark  your  star 

In  childhood's  days  or  riper  youth. 
If  no  use  marks  your  brilliant  part. 

The  world  will  say  and  pass  you  by: 
'Hes  like  the  gleaming  stars  which  dart. 

Which  dart,  dart  and  darting  die." 


i2  THE  REVELATION  OF  IIAHIIY  SHELDON. 


The  Revelation  of  Harry  Sheldon. 

"Girls,"  said  Clara  Rich,  "come  round  to  my  room  this 
evenine:  and  we  will  ^et  our  Latin  lessons  out  together." 

"All  right,  Clara,"  said  Bessie  Barton,  one  of  the  three 
girls  addressed,  "we'll  be  there." 

All  these  girls  were  students  in  a  co-educational  college  in 
one  of  the  southern  states,  and  a  bright  set  of  girls  they  were, 
too.  Don't  picture  to  yourself  a  group  of  old  maids,  for  our 
laughing  young  friends  were  not  that;  only  four  jolly  girls 
who  had  graduated  fi'om  the  village  high  school  the  year  be- 
fore and  w^ere  now  treading  the  thorny  path  that  only  the 
freshman  knows. 

I  did  not  say  the  girls  were  pretty.  You  of  course  know 
that  much;  for  in  the  wide  realm  who  ever  saw  a  high-school 
graduate  that  was  not. 

As  this,  however,  is  not  to  be  a  love  story — oh  do  not  lay 
the  book  down  so  spitefully,  my  dear  young  lady— I  will  not 
dwell  upon  the  charms  of  their  sweet  faces,  though  I  have  it 
on  good  authority  that  their  appearance  in  college  in  the  fall 
term  was  responsible  for  a  certain  almost  bald  old  bachelor 
senior  appearing  regularly  thereafter  in  a  clean  cravat;  a  thing 
he  had  always  scorned. 

But  to  my  story.  The  girls  met  at  Clara's  home  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour.  "  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  lesson  as  that  old 
crank  gave  us?  "  spoke  out  Jessie  Stanton. 

"  No,  nor  anybody  else,"  approved  Pearl  Spence. 

"Girls,"  said  Clara  Rich,  "I  don't  think  it's  one  bit  of  harm 
to  read  with  a  pony  when  the  teacher  gives  us  such  a  long 
lesson." 

Yes,  I  must  give  these  dear  searchers  for  knowledge  away. 
They  had  all  come  to  Clara's  home  that  they  might  have  the 
use  of  her  interlinear  to  untangle  the  d'ujuni^  vindicr  vndus. 
I  am  sorry  to  have  to  put  this  indictment  on  pa})er,  but  then 
they  were  only  human,  and  besides  it  is  a   part   of  the   story. 


THE  BEVEL  AT  J  ON  OF  HABIIY  SHELDON.  J^S 

The  paraphernalia  is  all  at  hand,  a  dictionary,  several  texts 
with  notes,  and  then  that  interlinear  which  bore  a  white  paper 
cover  on  w^hich  some  hand — feminine  I  fear — had  carefully 
lettered  "Hymns  and  Psalms."  All  went  well  for  awhile,  but 
then  the  labor  lan^y^uished  for  a  season,  and  the  conversation 
turned  upon  the  boy  students  in  general,  and  one  Harry  Shel- 
don, a  studious,  quiet  fellow,  in  particular. 

"  He  studies  too  much  .and  never  looks  at  the  girls,"  said 
Bessie. 

"Just  a  little  slow  and  a  trifle  green,  I  think,"  added  Pearl. 

"  He's  too  good  to  read  from  a  translation,  I  bet, "  put  in 
Jessie. 

What  more  they  would  have  said  I  don't  know,  but  looking 
out  of  the  parlor  window  just  at  that  moment  they  saw  him 
coming  up  through  the  yard. 

"There  he  comes  now,"  said    Clara,  looking   up,  "and   now 

we  can't  use  our  " but  he  had  rung   the   doorbell   and   she 

hastened  to  answer  it. 

"  Girls,"  said  Harry,  I  saw  you  all  come  in  here  with  your 
books  and  I  thought  I  would  come  over  and  study  with  you. 
It's  dreadful  lonesome  in  my  room.     No  harm  done  I  hoj^e." 

"Oh,  we  are  glad  to  see  you,  indeed,"  said  Pearl  as  she 
slipj^ed  the  interlinear  further  under  the  sofa  cushion,  "you 
can  help  us.'' 

They  chatted  a  few  minutes  and  then  went  at  the  Odes  with 
a  vengeance.  They  rolled  along  famously  with  the  first  one, 
and  the  second  made  good  sense,  but  the  third  seemed  to  have 
wrapped  up  in  it  the  diabolical  instincts  of  all  the  Romans  and 
was  as  untranslatable  as  the  veriest  Choctaw. 

For  half  an  hour  they  struggled  with  it.  Three-quarters  and 
no  satisfactory  results.  The  girls  were  ready  to  cry.  Harry 
was  half  mad. 

"  I  have  a  little  book  here  that  sometimes  I  use  under  very 
trying  circumstances,"  and  with  this  he  drew  out  "Horace's 
Complete  Works — A  Translation." 


THE  BEVEL  ATI  ON  OF  JlAIUiY  SHELDON. 


The  j?irLs  were  astonished,  he  did  it  so  deliberately.  But  at 
heart  they  rejoiced,  just  as  all  sinners  do  when  they  find  others 
committing  their  faults.  Then  there  was  li.i?ht  where  before 
was  obscurity,  and  the  third  Ode  was  mastered. 

"Well  ^'ood-bye,  f^irls,"  spoke  Harry,  donnini<  his  cap  and 
taking  his  book  he  w^ent  whistlini^:  home. 

"Isn't  he  just  lovely,"  asserted  Jessie.  If  then;  was  a  dis- 
sentini?  voice  to  this  verdict  it  never  reached  my  ears. 


NOEL.  45 


Noel. 

'Tis  C]:]rist]T\as  tiriqe  ar\d  We  Y\ear  tt^e  ct|irr\e 
Of  tt^e  sleigl)  bells'  tiriKling  steel. 
'Tis  Cl^ristrr\as  tide  and  y^e  give  our  gifts 
To  s]r[Ov^  tt^e  love  \^e  feel. 


4^  BOOKS. 


Books. 

In  books  I  liold  sweet  converse 
With  those  mighty  souls, 

That  beat  their  being  out 
Ur^on  this  shore. 

Their  thoughts  more  precious 
Than  the  precious  gold, 

Are  here  heaped  up  for  me 
In  bounteous  store. 


A  HONDO  LET. 


47 


A  Rondolet. 

Dear  sweet  Jeanette 

With  glances  coy  and  laughins:  eyes. 
My  sweet  Jeanette, 
I  feel  your  heaving  bosom  yet, 
Your  kisses  warm  as  a  sunny  day. 
Your  throbbing  heart  so  near  mine  lay 
My  dear  Jeanette. 

Dear  sweet  Jeanette, 

With  glances  coy  and  laughing  eyes. 

My  sweet  Jeanette, 

What  dimpled  cheeks  and  tresses  jet. 

How  swift  the  winged  hour  flies; 

When  on  my  bosom  your  head  lies, 

My  dear  Jeanette. 


J^8  THE  MYSTERIOUS  BROOCH. 

The  Mysterious  Brooch. 

One  evening  two  years  ago  I  sat  talking  wiili  my  fi-icnd, 
Frank  LePeever,  in  his  cosy  room  in  the  Latin  Quai-ter  in 
Paris.  LeFeever  was  an  artist,  a  Frenchman  by  biilli  and 
culture,  and  I  suppose  would  have  been  classed  by  Herr  Nordoau 
as  a  degenerate,  so  strongly  did  the  beautiful  affect  him.  But  our 
talk  was  not  of  i)hilosophers  or  degenerates;  it  was  of  tlie 
thousand  and  one  things  that  may  be  gossipped  about  in  the 
gay  and  Hashing  French  capital.  The  whirl  and  swirl,  the 
gaudiness  and  giddiness  of  this  metropolis  had  made  a  power- 
ful impression  on  me — a  gi-aduateof  one  of  the  smaller  colleges 
of  the  United  States  who  had  come  over  to  polish  himself  off 
and  see  a  bit  of  life.  Here  in  this  part  of  the  city,  eminently 
the  home  of  students,  I  found  the  companions  and  entertain- 
ment best  suited  to  my  taste  and  financial  status.  How  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  LeFeever  is  of  little  importance.  He  was 
my  room-mate  at  my  landlady's,  and  though  I  at  first  felt  a 
l^eculiar  aversion  for  him  I  came  to  like  him  more  as  time 
passed,  and  now  after  three  months  I  felt  a  real  union  with 
him.  There  was  nothing  peculiarly  attractive  about  him,  nor 
on  the  other  hand  was  there  anything  to  cause  positive  dislike. 
He  was  about  twenty-eight,  five  years  older  than  myself. 

His  shoulders  were  slightly  stooped,  his  hair  was  thin  and 
light  in  color,  his  face  was  pale  and  angular,  and  his  eyes  were 
the  blue  that  one  so  often  sees  in  the  half  obscured  skies  in 
Indian  summer. 

His  expression  was  sad  and  sometimes  his  absent-mindedness 
seem  to  approach  idiocy.  At  first  I  thought  that  his  severe 
studies  in  art  and  his  continual  labor  with  chisel  and  bi'ush 
were  proving  too  much  for  him,  and  lluit  his  mind  was  giving 
way  under  the  strain. 

His  talk,  however,  was  of  the  most  rational  sort,  and  his  ac- 
tions, with  one  exception,  those  of  a  perfectly  sane  man.  I 
concluded  at  last  that  these  spells  of  absorbing  absent-minded- 


THE  MYSTElUOrS  BROOCH.  Jf9 


ness  were  the  result  of  some  great  and  deep  shadows  of  sorrow 
that  had  crossed  his  life.  I  spoke  of  one  peculiar  action.  It 
had  to  do  with  an  old  leather  pocketbook  which  he  guarded 
with  care,  as  if  it  contained  some  priceless  treasure.  Every 
night  on  going  to  bed  he  placed  it  under  his  pillow.  On 
awakening  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  put  it  in  the  pocket  of 
the  coat  he  expected  to  wear  that  day.  Once  or  twice,  when 
he  thought  I  was  not  looking,  I  saw  him  take  some  shining 
object  out,  press  it  to  his  lips  and  replace  it  with  as  much  ten- 
derness as  if  it  had  been  some  living  being  capable  of  feeling 
pain.  At  other  times  he  would  rivet  his  eyes  upon  the  seem- 
ingly insignificant  object  as  if  it  were  some  powerful  spiritual 
magnet  from  which  he  could  not  wrest  away  his  soul.  I  felt  a 
real  sorrow  for  such  a  brilliant  mind,  so  near,  as  I  thought,  to 
the  verge  of  insanity. 

I  shall  not  forget  the  night  in  question  when  we  sat  each 
with  a  cigaette  between  his  lips.  Our  conversation  at  last 
turned  to  theaters,  and  we  spoke  of  the  noted  Spanish  singer 
Otero,  who  was  to  be  heard  at  the  Academie  de  Musique  on  the 
following  night.  "Of  course  we  shall  go,"  said  LeFeever. 
"I  bought  two  tickets  today  and  want  you  to  accompany  me." 
I  readily  assented. 

"  Where  are  our  seats?""  I  asked. 

"I  have  forgotten,"  replied  my  companion,  "but  can  tell  you 
in  a  minute  as  I  have  the  tickets  with  me." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  the  old  leather  pocketbook  which  I 
have  mentioned  and  proceeded  to  search  for  them. 

They  were  deep  in  one  of  the  pockets  of  the  purse,  and  as  he 
gave  it  a  shake  to  get  at  them  a  beautiful  gold  brooch  fell  out 
and  rolled  across  the  floor.  I  rose  from  my  chair  and  stooped 
to  get  it  for  him,  but  just  as  I  did  this  he  struck  me  a  blow 
with  his  fist  that  sent  me  staggering  to  the  corner. 

"  For  God  sake,  man,  what  do  you  mean!"  I  cried.  I  looked 
at  him;  his  face  w^as  pale  as  death.  His  right  hand  clasped 
the  shining  brooch  as  in  death  agony;  his  left  was  on  his  heart. 


no  THE  MYSTERTOUS  BROOCH. 


Omondica!  moncoeur!  he   shrieked   and   foil    fainting   to  the 
floor. 

I  lifted  him  up  and  laid  him  on  the  bed.  In  a  few  moments 
he  gained  consciousness.  He  still  held  the  treasured  object  in 
his  hand  and  hastened  to  place  it  in  the  old  purse.  Then  he 
looked  up  at  me  with  such  an  expression  of  sorrow  and  sad- 
ness as  would  have  melted  a  heart  harder  than  mine.  "  I  beg 
you  forgive  me,  Harmer,"  said  he,  "and  as  you  respect  me  as 
a  friend,  say  nothing  of  this." 

I  gave  him  my  promise  and  he  turned  his  face,  yet  deathly 
pale,  to  the  wall  and  went  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  his  work  half  heartedly,  and  at 
night  seemed  anxious  for  eight  o'clock  to  come  that  he  might 
go  to  the  theater.  The  streets  were  a  living  sea  of  people,  and 
as  we  passed  through  the  crowd  I  noticed  that  LeFeever  kept 
his  hand  over  the  left  breast  of  his  gilet,  in  the  inner  pocket 
of  which  I  knew  he  carried  the  mysterious  piece  of  jewelry 
which  seemed  to  have  such  a  strange  power  over  him. 

We  found  the  theater  packed.  It  was  a  great  event.  The 
first  time  Otero  had  ever  sung  in  Paris.  Her  fame  was  well 
established  in  Spain  and  now  she  was  starting  on  a  tour  of  the 
world.  The  orchestra  played  some  moving  airs  which  set 
one's  pulses  faster  beating.  The  whole  audience  was  on  the 
Qui  Vive  and  expectant.  I  looked  at  my  companion.  His  face  was 
beaming  with  pleasure,  and  I  knew  his  rare  artistic  nature  ex- 
pected a  treat. 

The  curtain  rang  up  and  a  wave  of  excitement  spread  over 
the  immense  crowd  and  all  leaned  forward  in  eager  expectancy. 
LeFeever  was  no  less  eager  than  the  rest.  I  was  glad  he  had 
apparently  forgotton  the  unpleasant  circumstance  of  the  pre- 
vious 'night.  Immediately  Otero  stepped  forward.  A  true 
type  of  Spanish  beauty.  Dark  features  boldly  outlined;  deep, 
dark  eyes,  capable  of  love  and  vengeance;  a  well  formed 
woman  whose  head  was  crowned  with  luxuriant,  black,  raven 
hair.     Such    was   the   famous  singer.     She   stepped   forward 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  BROOCH.  51 

with  conscious  pride.  There  was  an  uproar  of  applause. 
When  this  died  away  a  shriek,  as  of  a  demon,  at  my  side,  caused 
me  to  stare  in  amazement  at  LePeever,  who  was  standing  up- 
right in  his  seat.  There  was  a  look  of  murder  in  his  eyes. 
His  face  was  fixed*  and  hard.  Before  I  could  recover  suffi- 
ciently from  my  surprise  to  speak  to  him  he  leaped  into  the 
aisle  and  started  for  the  stage.  In  one  hand  he  grasped  tightly 
the  leather  pocketbook,  ragged  and  worn;  in  the  other  gleamed 
a  bright  new  dagger.  So  complete  was  the  surprise  of  the 
whole  audience  that  he  had  almost  reached  the  stage  before 
two  gensdarmes  seized  him. 

"You  assassin,"  he  cried,  and  tried  to  climb  upon  the  stage, 
but  the  officers  held  him  back. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Otero  gave  a  shriek  and  fled  behind 
the  wings  of  the  stage. 

The  next  morning  the  papers  bore  in  bold  headlines,  "A 
MAD  MAN  IN  A  THEATRE." 


52  />  E  FKK I  'i:ir S  ( 'ONFESSf  OX. 


Le   Feever  s    Confession, 

ScHiucl  lotliL'  Mysterious  liiooch. 

A  fortni,o:ht  had  elapsed  since  the  memorable  night  at  the 
theater  and  I  had  not  seen  Le  Peever.  I  was  in  my  room 
closely  intent  upon  one  of  Villon's  poems,  endeavoring  to  have 
some  definite  image  called  up  by  his  mystic  thoughts.  There 
came  a  light  knock  on  the  door,  and  upon  my  invitation  Le 
Feever  walked  in.  His  face,  even  paler  than  usual,  lighted  up 
perceptibly  at  my  warm  greeting,  and  after  bidding  me  good 
evening  he  sat  down.  I  had  read  in  that  evening's  paper  that 
after  a  careful  examination  the  doctors  had  failed  to  discover 
any  traces  of  insanity  in  Le  Feever,  and  consequently  he  had 
been  released.  For  this  reason  his  visit  was  no  great  sur- 
prise. I  could  not  help  but  notice  that  he  was  ill  at  ease — the 
uneasiness  which  possesses  a  man  who  guards  some  great  se- 
cret which  he  can  no  longer  keep  to  himself.  I  spoke  to  him 
on  various  tojoics,  endeavoring  to  engage  him  in  conversation, 
but  my  attemps  were  futile  and  he  grew  more  and  more  rest- 
less. At  last  he  arose,  walked  to  the  window  and  gazed  into 
the  street,  drumming  meanwhile  idly  with  his  fingers  on  the 
pane.  Then  he  turned  and  came  to  a  stand  directly  in  front  of 
me,  and  jjlacing  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder  looked  straight 
into  my  face. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  can  trust  you,"  he  began  abruptly.  "Har- 
mer,  after  the  peculiar  actions  you  have  seen  in  me  you  must 
consider  me  either  a  fool  or  a  mad  man. " 

I  made  some  evasive  answer,  but  he  went  on: 

"  I  now  mean  to  confide  to  you  a  secret  which  if  you  will 
keep,  and  lend  me  your  sympathy  and  help,  may  be  the  moans 


I.E  FEEVK/rS  CONFESSION.  53 


of  .^ving  me;  but  if  you  fail,  God  help  me  and  you  too,  for  I 
will  take  your  life." 

I  made  him  a  solemn  promise  to  guard  his  secret  and  do  any- 
thing honorable  in  my  power  to  help  him. 

"You  have  wondered,"  he  then  resumed,  "  why  so  insigniti- 
cant  a  thing  as  a  gold  brooch  could  have  such  an  influence  on  a 
man's  life.  I  will  tell  you,  Harmer.  The  most  simple  things 
may  have  such  a  meaning  attached  to  them  by  association  that 
they  will  ruin  weak  men  and  make  strong  men  turn  pale.  Such 
a  meaning  has  that  piece  of  jewelry  for  me.  But  to  my  story: 
If  ever  man  loved,  I  loved  Viviane  Fincelle.  We  had  been 
child,  youthful,  and  full-grown  lovers.  Her  father,  a  mer- 
chant of  considerable  means,  had  taken  a  liking  to  me  on  ac- 
count of  my  artistic  talent,  and  did  not  scorn  me  because  I  was 
poor.  Viviane  and  I  were  engaged  to  be  married  in  one  year, 
after  I  was  of  age.  This  year  I  decided  to  spend  in  travel  and 
chose  a  journey  through  Spain,  cursed  country  of  legend  and 
superstition  and  jealousy  that  it  is.  I  started  in  March  and  by 
June  I  had  found  a  beautiful  little  town  among  the  foot  hills  of 
the  Cantabrian  mountains.  Here  at  Bolano  I  decided  to  spend 
some  weeks  in  sketching  and  in  the  meantime  to  make  my 
home  with  Senor  Vasquez,  the  only  hotel  keeper  in  the  place. 
The  entertainment  at  his  place  was  not  of  the  highest  order 
but  it  was  the  best  there.  In  the  Vasquez  family,  numerous 
though  it  was,  there  was  but  one  person  for  whom  I  formed  a 
liking.  This  was  his  daughter  Delmonte,  a  typical  Spanish 
girl  of  seventeen,  in  whom  the  animal  and  the  beautiful  far 
outshone  any  mental  culture  she  possessed.  The  blood  in  my 
veins  was  warm  and  soon  we  were  desperately  in  love,  as  flirta- 
tion love  goes.  She  was  my  companion  and  hindrance  in  the 
foot  tours  I  took  over  the  hills  near  the  town  on  those  beauti- 
ful Spanish  summer  days.  She  grew  more  and  more  fond  of 
me  with  that  love  which  flashes  into  hate  in  an  instant.  I  be- 
came more  and  more  interested  in  her.  Of  an  evening  we 
would  sit  together  beneath  the  garden  arbor,  and  while  I  talked 


-,jf  1. /•;  ri:i-: i  i:ir s  ( 'om'kssi ox. 

to  her  of  paiiitin.i,'  and  art  she  would  twine  her  arms  around 
my  neck  and  punctuate  my  sentences  with  kisses.  Thus  we 
spent  some  weeks,  and  I  was  in  no  hurry  to  leave  my  hospita- 
ble guest  nor  his  pretty  daughter.  On  returning  one  evening 
from  one  of  my  daily  strolls  I  was  told  that  some  new  guests 
had  ai-rived.  Upon  entering  the  hotel  parlor  I  was  surprised 
U)  greet  Viviane  Fincelle  and  her  father.  They  had  started  on 
a  journey  to  Rome,  two  months  after  I  had  left  for 
my  summer's  trip,  but  had  decided  to  loiter  along  through 
S])ain  on  their  way  thither.  It  was  by  good  fortune  we 
had  met, 

Of  course  I  was  glad  to  see  the  girl  I  loved  above  above 
everything  else  in  the  world,  and  my  Senorita  was  soon  for- 
gotten when  Viviane  said  she  and  her  father  expected  to  re- 
main a  week  at  Bolano.  But  a  Spanish  love  dies  not  easily; 
or  if  it  dies,  unconquerable  hate  springs  from  its  lifeless  body 
as  the  new  polyp  from  the  dead  shell.  Delmonte  did  not 
forget.  She  watched  Viviane  with  jealous  eyes,  for  she  was 
now  my  companion  in  my  rambles.  I  sometimes  fancied  I  saw 
the  image  of  the  devil  of  hate  reflected  in  Delmonte's  eyes. 
She  said  nothing,  but  on  the  altar  of  her  heart  smouldered  the 
tire  ready  for  a  horrible  sacrifice  to  the  God  of  jealousy.  And 
she  was  priestess  at  that  sacrifice.  One  evening  after  the  day's 
tramping,  Viviane  and  I  sat  under  the  arbor  where  I  so  often 
had  sat  with  the  Spanish  girl.  Over  us  hung  large  clusters  of 
grapes  which  glinted  purple  in  the  setting  sun.  Away  on  the 
hills  we  heard  the  tripping  tinkle  of  the  sheep  bells,  the  whis- 
tle of  the  shepherd  and  the  bark  of  his  dog.  In  the  trees 
around  the  insects  hummed  and  drummed  the  sleepy  tunes  they 
learned  when  the  world  was  young.  I  had  been  telling  to 
Viviane  how  dearer  to  me  than  all  else  was  she.  Blushingly 
she  had  heard  it  and  rose  to  pluck  a  delicious  bunch  of  grapes. 
Leaning  over  the  back  of  the  rustic  seat,  one  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  she  gave  them  to  me.  I  looked  up  into  her  face. 
She  was  supremely  happy.     I  drew  her  down  and  kissed  her 


/./•;  FKFAl'UfS  CONFESSION.  56 

lips.  At  that  instant  there  was  a  rustling  noise,  the  vines 
parted.  I  saw  the  bright  gleam  of  a  dagger,  there  was  a  death 
shriek  and  a  srush  of  blood  tlowed  over  me  and  trickled  down 
my  bosom.  Viviane,  my  love,  my  love,  my  all,  fell  limp  across 
my  shoulder  gasping,  dying,  the  life  blood  pouring  from  a 
wound  on  the  side  of  her  neck. 

As  I  sat  thus  in  the  dumbness  of  heart  which  comes  to  one 
who  feels  he  has  lost  all  except  his  own  life,  which  he  most  de- 
sires to  loose,  something  bright  fell  from  my  dying  Viviane's 
throat  into  my  lap.  "This  is  it,"  said  Le  Feever,  choking 
with  grief,  as  he  held  up  the  mysterious  brooch,  '-and  Otero 
of  the  Music  Hall  is  Delmonte  Vasquez." 

I  looked  at  the  brooch  closely;  its  underside  was  stained 
with  blood. 


A  SONG  OF  TODAY. 


A  Song  of  Today. 

Come  till  up  the  cup  to  the  brim,  to  the  brim, 
And  we'll  drink  a  health  to  him,  to  him, 
Who  toils  all  day  in  the  heat  and  sun. 
And  saith  at  night,  "my  work  is  done." 

Great  sweat- beads  stand  on  his  face,  his  face, 
Where  days  of  toil  have  left  their  trace,  their  trace. 
His  hands  are  rough  and  his  arras  are  brown, 
But  his  h(3ad  doth  richly  deserve  the  crown 

Of  honest  worth.     Today  he  asks  for  bread,  for  bread; 
His  brother  gives  him  stone  instead,  instead. 
A  stone,  a  stone  is  his  for  bread. 
His  brother  giveth  a  stone  instead. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  ABDIOLEL.  57 


Selections  from  Abdiolel.  * 

I  know  'tis  said  that  cruel  death 

Is  anxious  for  a  shining  mark; 
Certes  he  found  it  when  the  spark 

Of  thy  young  Hfe  went  out  with  breath. 

But  why  at  thee  this  foe  so  fell 

So  soon  should  aim  his  fatal  dart, 
Which  cruel  pierced  thy  youthful  heart, 

Is  more  than  thy  weak  friend  can  tell. 
***** 
And  does  he  mark  with  ill  intent 

Those  who  mount  upward  as  the  flame, 
And  soon  would  grasp  a  place  from  fame, 

With  which  they  well  might  rest  content? 
***** 

But  we  are  taught  that  over  all 

There  ruleth  one  Almighty  Lord, 
Without  whose  knowledge  and  whose  word, 

May  not  a  single  sparrow  fall. 

All  are  subject  to  His  command — 

The  dreaded  powers  of  lasting  night. 
The  shining  ones  of  blessed  light. 

Alike  are  governed  by  His  hand. 

That  in  his  wisdom  what  He  doth. 

Is  best  for  those  who  trust  his  name. 
Though  at  the  first  faith's  flickering  flame 

Does  not  give  light  to  see  it  thus. 

So  unto  him  this  dreaded  death 

Must  then  be  subject  with  the  rest, 
And  can  but  act  at  His  behest 

When  He  does  take  a  mortal's  breath. 

*  Note.— The  lines  under  this  head  are  in  memory  of  my  friend  and  classmate, 
Lawrence  S.  Maulsby,  They  are  taken  from  Abdiolel.  a  poem  written  while  I  was  ir 
California  and  published  in  pamphlet  form  September,  1894. 


SELFJTIOXS  FnO]\r  AIID/OLEL. 


If  thus  I  learn,  I  must  allow- 
That  e'en  the  death  of  my  dear  friend 

Will  be  my  profit  in  the  end, 
However  much  I  sorrow  now. 
***** 

When  sorrow's  angry  clouds  hang  low. 
And  deluge  our  poor  souls  with  grief, 

0  send  us  quickly  Thy  relief. 

That  we  may  all  Tliy  goodness  know. 

'  Tis  when  across  our  hearts  are  made 
The  furrows  misery's  ploughshare  turns, 

When  all  we've  loved  or  trusted  spurns. 

We  turn  to  Thee  and  ask  Thine  aid. 

***** 

Yet  help  us  still  in  our  distress. 

Around  us  place  Thy  shielding  power. 

That  we  may  learn  each  day  and  hour 
To  love  Thee  more  and  fear  Thee  less. 

*  *  *  *  * 

1  seem  to  hear  the  scoffer  laugh 

When  God  or  Heaven  to  him  are  named. 
For  those  he  seemeth  much  ashamed 
Who  found  their  hopes  upon  such  chaff. 

He  fain  would  have  us  all  believe 

There  is  no  Heaven,  there  is  no  God; 

No  bright  reward,  no  chastening  rod, 
But  all  are  visions  which  deceive. 

*  *  *  *  * 
Are  wo  but  cunning  casts  in  clay? 

Fashioned  by  tlie  liand  of  chance, 
And  on  us  will  there  never  glance 
The  beamings  of  a  brighter  day? 

THE  liOSE  OF   SHARON. 

Neath  Judean  suns  'twas  planted, 

In  the  ages  past  away, 
Beat  about  by  persecution. 

Growing  stronger  every  day. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  ABDIOLEL.  59 

Not  uprooted  by  man's  anger, 

Nor  scorched  midst  martyr  flames, 
Ever  greater  grow  its  branches, 

Bearing  many  noble  names. 

Down  the  centuries  ran  its  rootlets. 

Twining  midst  the  misty  years. 
Shading  every  clime  and  people, 

By  its  verdure,  from  their  tears. 

And  I  look  adown  the  future, 

'Long  Time's  gliding  river's  shore, 
And  I  see  the  Rose  of  Sharon 

Blooming  brightly  evermore. 


None  would  deny  that  men  of  greed, 
In  ages  past,  mid  many  climes, 

Did  deeds  of  death  and  bloody  crimes. 
And  claimed  the  Bible  as  their  creed. 


So  thus  they  wrought  'neath  sunny  clime, 
Until  the  Rome  which  Peter  gave 

Made  man  a  seven-fold  more  slave 
Than  did  the  Cassars  in  their  prime. 


"VVe  should  not  for  what  is  false 
Reject  alike  what's  good  and  true, 

And  say  that  naught  is  pure  we  view. 
That  all  is  sin  and  wicked  all. 

Prom  out  the  mass  of  useless  chatf 
Let  us  with  patience  take  the  grain, 

Though  winnowing  cause  us  toil  and  pain. 
Our  work  will  speak  in  our  behalf. 

Old  feudal  castles  covered  o'r  with  moss 
Should  not  for  that  command  respect. 

Nor  men  who  say  they're  God's  elect, 
If  all  their  works  consisu  of  dross. 


so  SKLFJTIOXS   FIIOM  AIIDIOI.KL. 


Wbate'er  has  aided  man  to  climb 
From  out  a  rude  and  savage  life, 

Away  from  evil,  sinful  strife. 
May  truthfully  be  called  divine. 

Scatter  creeds  to  earth's  four  winds, 
And  may  the  blast  that  leaves  no  crace. 

Roll  back  the  clouds  which  hide  God's  face, 
That  we  may  know  His  laws,  not  man's. 

If  all  the  creeds  that  man  has  made 
Were  lost  in  one  consuming  blaze, 

Right  would  be  right  in  every  phase, 
And  good  be  good  as  ever  staid. 

I  hold  it  true  what  I  believe 
Is  of  less  worth  than  what  I  do. 

I  may  believe  that  which  is  true 
And  do  the  acts  that  all  deceive. 
*  *  *  * 

Not  what  we  think  or  yet  profess 
Makes  up  the  sum  of  our  brief  lives, 

But  what  man  does;  for  what  he  strives 
AVill  sadl}'  curse  or  gladly  bless. 

But  let  me  rest  and  sweet  repose 
Steal  calmly  o'er  my  troubled  heart. 

And  soothe  me  with  the  healing  art 
That  honest  toil  and  labor  knows. 

Sweet  recollection  bodies  forth  the  forms 
Of  pleasures  past,  of  joyous  ties, 

I've  known  e'er  this  neath  other  skies 
Before  for  him  I  came  to  mourn. 

Once  more  I'm  sitting  in  the  wood. 
Where  glides  the  silver  stream  along; 

Once  more  I  hear  the  Spring's  glad  song. 
She  sings  to  give  us  happy  mood. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  ABDTOLEL.  61 


SPRING  S   SONG. 

Down  in  the  valley  the  violets  are  springing-, 
Overhead  in  the  trees  the  blue  bird  is  singing, 
The  heart  of  the  phoebe  is  warmed  by  the  sun. 
And  out  of  his  throat  sweet  music  doth  run. 
Through  the  grass  glides  the  snake, 
Mother  Nature's  awake. 

Sweet  little  anemone  uj:)  on  the  hill. 
Jolly  young  buttercup  down  by  the  rill, 
Are  laughing  and  singing  all  the  day  long, 
While  the  frisky  young   daises   dance   to   their 

song; 
The  grass  is  a  carpet  under  our  feet, 
And  all  things  are  sweet. 

Hear  the  cock  crowing. 

Hear  the  herds  lowing, 

Hear  the  quail  calling  far  'gainst  the  hill. 

And  his  mate's  answer  soft  and  still. 

See  the  maize  springing. 

And  robin  swinging 

Gayly  near  by  on  the  apple  tree  bough; 

E'en  the  sad  sparrow  is  happy  now. 

The  sturdy  woodpecker,  a  carpenter  he, 
Is  busily  pounding  the  old  oak  limb. 
Making  a  house  for  his  wife  and  him; 

While  the  bee. 

In  days  that  are  sunny, 

He  gathers  his  honey 

For  the  cold,  cold  time 

When  the  sleghbells  chime. 

Beautiful  butterfly  of  gaudy  wing. 
Short-lived  heralder  of  spring. 
Alights  on  the  poppy  to  rest, 
And  thinks  how  best 
He  may  show  his  beauty. 
Scarce  thinks  he  of  duty. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  ABDIOLEL. 


Let  the  birds  sing, 

And  joyous  ring; 

"Tis  the  glad  time  of  Spring, 

When  from  their  graves 

Creep  the  flowers  and  the  leaves 

To  gladden  our  hearts  once  more, 

Our  hearts  that  are  sore. 


Awaked!     O  can  it  be  that  what  I  saw 
And  what  I  heard  was  but  a  dreamt 

And  so  it  was,  though  it  doth  seem 
Too  real  to  own  the  slightest  flaw. 

Strange  power  of  mind  that  in  the  night 
Brings  former  scenes  to  us  again. 

Oh  that  they  might  with  us  remain, 
And  never  vanish  from  our  sight. 

'Tis  long  now  since  that  happy  day 
I  sat  with  him  'neath  shady  trees. 

And  heard  Spring's  music  in  the  breeze. 
Yet  soemeth  it  but  yesterday. 

Time's  swift  wheeled  chariot  moves  alon^ 
And  leaves  behind  the  dust  of  years, 

Which  dust  is  mingled  with  the  tears 
Wrung  from  all  men,  however  strong. 

Again  has  come  the  smiling  year; 

Once  more  I  hear  the  blue  bird  sing, 
'Tis  but  a  year  since  last  'twas  spring, 

Yet  not  such  music  sweet  I  hear. 

It  seemeth  time  is  out  of  tune. 

Or  striketh  not  the  chords  aright. 

Across  my  soul  hatli  come  a  blight, 
I  feel  aweary  much  too  soon. 

Weary  and  I  know  not  why; 

'Tis^  not  with  labor's  heavy  task; 
Yet  scarce  the  reason  need  I  ask, 

I  live  'neath  sorrow's  clouded  sky. 


SELECTIONS  FUOM  ABDIOLEL.  63 


But  tnose  who  see  me  in  the  crowd, 
Say,  "Naught  of  sorrow  hath  he  known. 

By  him  the  happy  years  have  flown 
With  joyous  sono-  and  Inughter  loud." 

'Tis  true  I  am  but  slisrht  of  years; 

Just  through  life's  book  begun  to  leaf; 
But  this  I  know,  that  extreme  grief 

Locks  up  the  fountain  of  our  tears. 


Once  more  the  flowers  bloom  on  the  hills, 
The  birds  that  singing  in  the  trees 

Fling  music  on  the  fitful  breeze 
That  flutters  by  the  dancing  rills. 

Borne  along  by  the  south  wind 

Comes  Spring  to  gladden  every  one, 

With  subtle  warmth  of  mellowing  sun, 
That  lends  the  earth  its  beamings  kind. 

But  there's  a  heart  twelve  months  ago 
Beat  happily  with  Spring's  caress, 

That  beats  no  more;  it  is  at  rest. 
Sleeping  where  blue  violets  grow. 

The  Spring  that  him  much  pleasure  gave, 
With  singing  birds  in  every  tree; 

That  blossomed  flowers  for  him  to  see, 
Can  now  but  blow  one  on  his  grave. 

And  yet  the  springtime  giveth  hope, 
With  springing  flowers  and  budding  leaves. 

The  swallows  building  'neath  the  eaves 
Cheer  us  who  in  the  darkness  grope. 

Whence  came  the  flowers  sprung  up  by  earth? 

Prom  her  cold  bosom,  brown  and  bare. 
To  scatter  fragrance  on  the  air. 

What  was  the  power  that  wiled  them  forth? 

And  what  the  Power  that  from  the  bud 
Could  shape  in  beauty  the  green  leaf? 


64.  SELECTIONS  FROM  AHDIOLKL. 


A  simple  seed  a  flower  may  be, 

That  sprins:iDg  upward  from  the  ground. 
Will  sweeten,  o-ladden  all  around, 

And  let  us  all  its  beauty  see. 

'Tis  true  we  see  the  seeds  no  more. 
Nor  could  we  wish  it,  since  the  flower 

Hath  brought  us  many  a  happy  hour, 
That  we  had  never  known  before. 

The  simple  seed  contains  the  life. 

Yet  it  must  perish  ere  we  see 
The  lovely  flower  or  beauteous  tree, 
Or  we  can  learn  that  it  has  life. 


Hear  the  hail  upon  the  roofs, 
Like  the  horses'  horny  hoofs. 
Beating  on  the  frozen  ground. 
All  around,  up  and  down 
Are  the  dancers  in  white  gown. 

Merry  hail  from  the  clouds. 
Coming  down  dressed  in  shrouds 

Of  pure  white. 
Were  you  not  afraid  to  fall? 
Down  from  Heaven's  high  blue  wall 

Did  it  you  affright':' 

Drops  of  hail  in  your  shrouds, 
Will  you  ever  reach  the  clouds 

Once  again'? 
Yes,  the  sun  will  carry  us  back 
On  his  shoulders  broad,  alack; 

In  good  time. 

The  clouds  hang  low  as  if  they  came 
Anxious  to  bring  the  rain; 
But  old  Aeolus  blew  his  breath 
Cold  and  caused  the  raindrops  death; 
And  the  hail  now  so  white. 
Dancing  on  the  roof  thus  light; 
Is  the  rain  in  winding  sheet, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  ABDIOLEL.  65 


Even  death  may  be  sweet. 


The  rugged  quartz  contains  the  gold, 
Yet  must  be  crushed  ere  we  can  gain, 
The  beauteous,  glistening,  golden  grain, 
To  cast  into  the'glowing  mold. 

In  gazing  on  the  mighty  weight 
Is  used  to  crush  the  rugged  rock. 
One  can  but  think  the  heavy  shock 
Will  waste  the  precious  gold  complete. 

But  'tis  the  rock  alone  is  lost, 

Returning  to  the  mother  earth, 

And  all  that  is  of  any  worth 

Is  brought  out  shining,  free  from  dross. 

So  when  the  heavy  stamp  of  death 
Doth  crush  to  earth  this  mound  of  clay. 
It  does  but  gently  ope  the  way 
And  give  a  deathless  spirit  breath. 


No  life  is  vain  that  does  a  deed 
Of  kindness  to  some  mortal  here. 

That  cheers  a  heart  or  dries  a  tear, 

Or  aids  poor  struggling  mankind's  need. 


The  twig  that's  burdened  with  a  weight. 

The  floweret  trampled  in  the  dust. 
The  grain  stalk  blighted  with  a  rust 
Can  ne'er  be  beautiful  or  straight. 


The  crowning  beauty  of  the  rose 
But  hides  the  thorns  upon  its  stem, 

Who  plucks  the  rose  is  pricked  by  them 
Ere  it  another  parent  knows. 

If  on  the  rose  stem  was  no  thorn, 
If  we  might  pluck  it  free  from  pain. 


66  SELECTIONS  FIlOM  AJIDIOI.KL. 


Then  we  wouid  count  it  little  gain 
To  hold  a  llower  so  poor,  forlorn. 

*  *  *  * 

Come,  Memory,  take  me  by  the  hand 

And  lead  me  thither  once  again. 
Unto  those  scenes  I  so  well  ken, 

Though  now  I  tread  a  foreign  strand. 


But  should  I  chance  into  the  town, 
And  should  I  pass  again  the  street, 

Where  oft  w^e  trod  with  joyous  feet 
And  gladsome  wandered  up  and  down. 

And  should  I  meet  him  in  the  mart, 
Should  he  to  me  his  hand  extend, 

I'd  grasp  it  firmly  and  my  friend 
Embrace  without  a  startled  heart. 

I  could  not  deem  it  very  strange. 
Should  I  thus  meet  him  in  the  w^ay. 

Where  passed  us  many  a  happy  day, 
Gone  now  from  this  life's  narrow  range. 


I  love  to  wander  out  and  be  alone  with  Mother  Nature; 
She  charms  me  with  her  quiet  solitude, 
And  her  birds  and  rippling  streams  make  music 
Sw^eeter  far  than  any  instrument  of  man's  invention. 
How  great  she  seems,  and  I  how  small. 
It  seemeth  meet  that  I  should  bow  and  offer  praise 
To  Him  who  in  His  might  hath  reared 
These  hills  and  hung  in  space  this  swinging  sphere. 
Can  he  not  guide  the  fragile  bark  of  my  poor  soul 
Throughout  the  tempest  tossings  of  this  world, 
And  bring  me  safe  at  last  into  the  port. 
When  life's  brief  voyage  is  at  end? 
«-  *  *  * 

I'll  break  from  otf  my  weeping,  no  longer  I'll  mourn. 
In  silence  and  sadness  my  grief  I  have  borne, 
In  these  stranded  cries,  but  pulsations  of  grief 


SELECTIONS  FROM  ABDIOLEL.  67 


My  heart  has  sought  refuge,  my  soul  found  relief, 

The  affection  I  bore  him  these  measures  beat  out; 

Now  hoping,  now  trusting,  now  deluged  in  doubt. 

Oft  by  faith  laying  hold  on  Heaven's  high  throne; 

Oft  wandering  in  darkness,  untrusting,  alone. 

And  crossing  sometimes  the  cold  borders  of  death, 

In  fancy  imagined  that  I  felt  the  breath 

Of  the  breezes,  made  fragrant  with  sweet  odors  rife. 

Caught  while  tossing  the  branches  of  the  glad  tree  of  life. 

With  feet  yet  unholy  I've  trod  streets  of  gold, 

Searching  Heavenly  mansions  his  face  to  behold. 

I  have  heard  joyous  music,  such  as  angels  can  play. 

Who  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  eternal  day.  ^ 

You  may  call  this  a  vision,  you  may  call  it  a  dream, 

As  idle  as  murmur  of  pure  purling  stream. 

Ah  so  it  may  be,  but  I  think  it  not  so; 

I  deem  them  vibrations  of  a  heart  filled  with  woe. 


68  Till':  LOST  r II ILL). 


The  Lost  Child. 

Thi>  fdllowirifj  lines  iirc  foiiiKlfd  updii  a  rciil   incident    whieli  occurred  a  few  yesirs 
a.iio  in  Culifuniiii.  anions  tlie  Sierra  Nevada  niountains, 

O  listen  to  that  mother's  cry; 
^    It  seems  that  it  vvill  pierce 
The  very  hearts  of  sturdy  pines. 
It  rings  so  loud  and  fierce. 

What  a  wail,  O  God!  the  cause 

Is  told  in  that  continued  shriek: 
"  My  child  is  lost!  my  child  is  h)-'<f ! 

God  give  me  strength!  I  faint;  I'm  weak!  " 

The  pines  make  no  reply,  but  moan; 

They  seem  to  grieve  in  sym^^athy. 
Sierra's  peaks  rise  dark  around  and  seem  to  say: 

"We  hide  thy  child  from  thee." 

'Tis  so;  the  searchers  wander,  dark  the  way. 

So  near  they  once  the  little  wanderer  came 
They  heard  her  sob  and  breathe; 

They  called,  it  frightened  her  away — her  name. 

They  stretch  their  hands,  the  gloom 

Was  all  they  felt.     Not  there; 
Sho'd  fled.     A  tiny  track  or  two 

Shown  by  a  match's  glare. 

Continued  search.     The  same 

Results.     Day  by  day  they  strive. 
O'er  and  o'er  the  searchers  ask: 

"  Dead  or  aliveV     Dead  hv  alive?  " 

"Mangled,  crushed,  torn,  or  yet  all  safey 

Cast  down  from  some  high  place? 
Killed  by  some  beast?     Perhaps  well; 

'Twould  be  a  comfort  but  to  see  her  face." 

Hid  in  some  covert;  fearing  those 

Who  mean  her  only  good? 
Thinking  them  savages,  to  escape 

Fleeing  to  a  deeper  wood? 


TFIE  LOST  CHILD  09 


Nia^ht  aarain.     Distraction,  pain 

For  that  poor  mother.     God  sustain 

And  comfort  her.     Help  her  bear  up 
In  tliis  sad  hour  when  sorrows  reign. 

The  search  is  o'er.     Found?  Yes. 

"Lifeless  or  with  breath?"     Dread 
Silence.     Tread  softly.     In  a  mountain  pool, 

'  Mid  crystal  waters — found — dead. 


70  IHEM  FROGS. 


Them  Frogs. 

Listen  to  them  froo^s  down  there  in  the  pond; 
Haint  nothin'  on  earth  that  I'm  quite  as  fond 
Of  hearin'  as  them  same  frogs.     When  I  hear 
Them  croakin'  I'm  just  sure  spring's  near. 

When  they  begin  it  kinder  sets  me  to  wishin' 
That  I  had  some  bait  an'  that  old  fishin' 
Pole  hangin'  out  under  the  shed.     I  don't  care  a  cent 
When  I  hear  them  frogs,  who  pays  the  rent. 

Me  an'  Mandy  set  on  the  porch  a  talkin' 
But  when  them  peterdicks  go  to  squawkin' 
I  just  stop.     Seems  I  get  so  drowsy  just  along 
About  the  middle  of  their  sing  song. 

I  sometimes  most  wish  I  was  a  frog  and  contented, 
Whether  I  owned  a  big  farm  or  rented 
Somebody  else's.     Then  a  feller  wouldn't  need  to  worry, 
Whether  the  plowin  was  done  and  never  have  to  hurry. 

So  'long  in  the  spring  of  the  year 

There  haint  nothin'  I  like  to  hear. 

Nor  nothin'  I  am  half  so  fond 

Of  listen'  to  as  them  frogs  down  in  that  pond. 


THE  SPRING  FJJCINOX.  71 


The  Spring  Equinox. 

A\\  day  the  elements  have  had 

A  fierce,  malignant  war. 
Across  the  budding  fields  of  spring 

Aeolus  drives  his  car. 

'Tis  winter's  last  and  weakest  fight, 

For  a  few  days  will  bring, 
Ah,  we  will  hail  it  with  delight. 

The  young  and  sprightly  spring. 

Then  blow  winter  while  you  may. 
Your  scattered  snow  flakes  round, 

For  spring  quite  soon  will  be  this  way. 
And  you  no  longer  found. 


72  GOOD  NIGHT. 


Good  Night. 

The  sun  sinks  down  behind  the  hills, 

Good  night. 
The  bird  its  last  sweet  carol  trills, 

Good  night. 
The  sun  is  gone. 
The  birds'  song  stilled. 
All  sounds  are  hushed 
And  silence  reigns 

Good  night. 

The  moon  upon  us  sheds  her  light 

Good  night. 
Across  our  love  hath  come  a  blight, 

Good  night. 
Love's  flame  is  out; 
'Twill  burn  no  more. 
You  blew  it  out 
Thus  let  it  stay, 

Good  night. 


A  BECOLLECTIOK  73 


A  Recollection. 

OtY  AN  OIjD  BACHF.r.OK.) 

What  do  I  remember  of  that  childish  face?  Ah,  'tis  one  of 
those  sad  sweet  spots  in  the  fields  of  memory  to  which  I  will 
ever  turn  though  each  visit  makes  my  heart  swell  and  a  tear 
steal  down  a  furrow  in  my  cheek. 

But  my  pipe  is  out.  Here  is  a  match  from  the  deepest  corner 
of  my  vest  pocket.  Now  the  wreaths  of  smoke  curl  upward 
and  I  see  that  childish  face  once  more.  It  is — yes  it  is —  the 
face  of  Alice,  my  child  sweet-heart.  Who  does  not  remem 
ber  the  loves  of  childhood?  Those  sweet  childish  experiences 
when  we,  fresh  from  the  bosom  of  God,  do  not  know  that  love 
is  something  to  be  hidden.  When  we  would  take  each  other's 
tiny  hands  and  stand  looking  into  one  another's  faces  well  know- 
ing that  there  was  something  pulling  our  hearts  together  but 
caring  not  what  it  was. 

Alice  was  the  good  angel  of  my  childhood's  years.  Her 
father's  house  was  just  at  the  edge  of  our  farm — for  I  am 
country  born  and  often  here  in  the  smoke  and  din  of  the  city 
I  wish  that  I  could  again  see  the  green  meadows  and  play  at 
hide  and  seek  in  the  old  barn.  Quite  often  would  tiny  Alice 
come  toddling  over  to  our  house  to  play  with  me,  the  morning 
dew  kissing  her  little  pink  feet  into  blushes  as  she  waded 
through  the  wet  still  grass,  and  for  her  lips  I  always  had  a 
kiss.  She  was  five  and  I  was  six.  What  days  of  joy  were 
these  when  we,  hand  in  hand,  went  to  search  where  that  loudly 
cackling  hen  had  made  her  nest,  or  it  may  be  we  went  to  wade 
in  the  brook  and  catch  the  frightened  polliwogs   in  our  hands. 

Each  was  anxious  to  share  the  sorrows  and  joys  of  the 
other.  I  remember  how  she  cried  in  sympathy  with  me  one 
day  when  I  cut  my  finger  with  my  brother's  big  knife  I  had 
taken  without   his  leave   from   his   Sunday   trousers   pocket. 


A   nECOLLFAJTJON. 


Then,  too,  when  her  pet  robin  died  I  was  chief  mourner  as  we 
took  its  tiny  dead  body  out  under  an  apple  tree  and  made  for  it 
a  suitable  ^rave.  I  realy  think  the  sermon  I  preached  as  she 
patted  the  soft  earth  over  it  was  a  mode],  at  least  for  tenderness 
and  sympathy  that  might  well  be  used  by  many  today  when 
hearts  are  bowed  in  sadnesss. 

No  sweetmeat  was  ever  eaten  by  one  unless  the  other  shared 
and  I  remember  when  one  day  she  had  a  big  blushing  cherry 
in  her  lingers,  and  I  would  not  take  a  taste  of  it  she  was  about 
to  cry.  "Cause,'*  said  she,  "if  you  don't  eat  some  it  won't 
taste  good. " 

One  day  when  I  was  at  her  home  as  we  came  in  from 
play  Alice  ran  hastily  to  her  mother  saying:  "Mamma  I  want 
you  to  teach  me  to  cook  and  keep  house." 

"Why,  what  for,  dear,"  said  her  mother. 

' '  'Cause  me  and  Chic  (my  real  name  was  Will)  are  going  to 
get  married  before  long  and  I  want  to  know  how  to  keep  my 
house  nice  like  you  do  yours,"  said  Alice  confidentially. 

Her  mother  assured  her  that  she  would  teach  her  in  due 
time,  and  we  again  hastened  out  to  play  with  well  contented 
hearts. 

Blessings  on  child  lovers.  Pui-ity  in  their  minds,  careless- 
ness in  their  hearts  and  love  in  every  action. 

And  now  my  recollection  brings  me  to  our  first  winter  at 
school.  Alice's  home  was  immediately  on  the  path  that  led 
across  the  field  to  the  little  rugged  school  house  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away.  I  was  an  only  child,  with  no  brother  or  sister  to 
accompany  me  to  school,  but  I  never  lacked  company.  As  I 
came  whistling  across  the  field  toward  Alice's  home  I  always 
saw  a  child's  face  pressed  against  the  window  pane,  more  rosy 
and  sweet,  I  thought,  than  the  geraniums  that  nodded  on  the 
sin  beneath  it.  When  I  reached  the  house  she  was  always 
standing  on  the  door  step,'her  chubby  little  hands  ensconced  in 
red  mittens  of  her  mother's  making,  a  warm  hood'  of  tliesame 
color  on  her  head  and  in  her  hand  a  little  tin  j^ail  which  held 


A  BECOLLECTION.  76 


her  noon  lunch.  Beneath  her  arm  was  her  primer,  but  this  I 
was  always  too  gallant  to  let  her  carry. 

Away  we  scampered  to  the  school  house,  stopping  per- 
chance to  watch  a  squirrel  as  he  frisked  to  and  fro  on  the  now 
barren  branches  of  his  oak  tree  home,  then  hastening  on  lest 
we  be  late  and  receive  a  frown  from  our  teacher,  who  was  one 
of  those  old  fashioned  followers  of  the  rod  who  would  have 
thought  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  smile.  Those  were  withal 
happy  days  at  school  though  to  me  the  noon  hour  was  the  most 
pleasant  when  Alice  and  I  left  the  other  children  and  built  our 
play  houses  by  ourselves  like  the  two  selfish  midgets  that  we 
were. 

We  did  not  always  escape  punishment,  and  more  than  once, 
I  especially,  had  to  endure  some  such  terrible  ordeal  as  stand- 
ing on  the  floor  on  one  foot,  or  sitting  on  the  dunce  block. 
There  was  one  punishment,  though,  that  even  now  I  remember 
with  great  i)leasure  and  a  tinge  of  sadness. 

It  was  a  rule  that  for  paltry  offenses  the  boys  should 
sit  with  the  girls.  Alice  was  my  seat  mate  and  the  punishment 
was  not  severe. 

Thus  the  school  term  swept  by  until  the  last  month  had 
come  and  neither  I  nor  Alice  had  missed  a  day.  With  pleasure 
we  looked  forward  to  the  last  day  of  school,  when  our  teacher 
had  promised  to  relax  his  severity  and  give  us  a  treat  in  the 
way  of  a  holiday.  Just  twenty  school  days  remained,  when  on 
a  Monday  morning — pshaw!  there  is  a  lump  in  my  throat — as 
I  drew  near  the  home  of  my  child  sweetheart,  I  failed  to  see 
her  face. 

•'Alice  is  sick.  She  has  a  very  sore  throat,"  said  her 
mother,  in  answer  to  my  inquiring  look  as  I  opened  the  door. 

I  trudged  on  to  school,  but  if  the  squirrels  frisked  I  did 
not  see  them  and  if  any  bird  sang  I  failed  to  hear.  All  I 
recollect  is  that  I  felt  very  chilly  and  sad.  Neither  Tuesday 
nor  the  three  following  days  brought  any  smiling  face  to  the 
window.     On  Friday  her  mother  called  to  me  as  I  passed  and 


76  A  RECOLLECTION. 

requested  that  I  tell  my  mother  to  come  over  that  night,  as 
Alice  was  much  worse.  After  supper  my  father,  mother  and  I 
all  went  to  her  home.  Alice's  mother  and  my  own  held  an 
anxious  conversation  with  the  family  doctor  very  soon  after  we 
arrived,  and  while  I  heard  but  little  of  it  one  word,  "diph- 
theria," sticks  in  my  memory  like  a  poisoned  arrow. 

After  a  while  we  all  went  into  the  room  where  Alice  was. 
When  I  saw  her  pale  face,  once  so  rosy,  and  her  sunken  eyes 
my  childish  heart  was  struck  with  terror.  I  had  not  seen  her 
during  her  sickness.  I  know  why  now,  but  then  I  thought  it 
wonderfully  cruel.  Indeed  it  was  only  with  constant  begging 
that  I  got  my  mother's  consent  on  that  sad  night.  A  faint 
smile  spread  over  her  face  as  she  saw  me,  and  she  tried  to 
speak  but  it  was  only  a  whisper."  I  bent  over  her  to  kiss  her 
parched  lips,  but  they  drew  me  away,  and  I  burst  into  tears. 
For  hours,  it  seemed  an  age  to  me,  we  sat  by  her  bed  and  no 
one  spoke.  Every  few  minutes  the  doctor  would  go  to  her  and 
every  time  turned  away  with  a  more  troubled  look.  At  last  he 
whispered  something  to  her  father  and  both  of  them  went  and 
stood  by  her  bed. 

She  had  lain  quiet  for  a  long  time,  but  now  she  turned 
uneasily  and  seemed  to  be  struggling.  All  gathered  round  her 
bed  and  as  she  tossed  to  and  fro  struggling  for  her  breath,  her 
little  face  bore  such  a  look  of  suffering  that  all  burst  into  tears. 

Then  she  was  easy  for  a  moment.  "She  is  dying,"  said 
the   doctor. 

"Papa,"  she  whispered,  "  where  do  people  go  when  they 
die?" 

It  seemed  that  his  big  manly  heart  would  burst  as  he 
realized  that  soon  his  idol  was  to  be  torn  from  him  and  he 
replied:     "  You  will  go  to  heaven,  my  dear." 

The  little  sufferer  looked  around  the  tearful  group,  and  as 
her  eyes  rested  upon  me  she  smiled  and  a  strange  light  came 
into  her  eyes  as  she  said:     "May  Chic  go  with  me  ?" 

Ah,  Alice,  as  you  look   down  from  that  realm  of   spirits 


A  RECOLLECTION.  77 

where  you  now  are  crowned  with  lUies  white  as  your  pure 
soul,  do  you  ever  wish  that  my  poor  battered  spirit  was  your 
companion?  Heartily  did  I  wish  that  I  could  be  your  compan- 
ion on  that  night.  It  was  with  that  smile  on  her  face  that  she 
closed  her  eyes.  Patient,  loving,  faithful  Alice,  my  child 
sweetheart,  was  dead. 

That  is  my  first  recollection,   but  why  are  my  cheeks  so 
wet  and  why  am  I  choking  so — over  only  a  recollection. 


78  POEM. 


Poem. 

READ  BEFORE  THE  AT.UMNI  OF  THE  FAHIMONT  NORMAL  SCHOOL 
AT   FAIRMONT,    WEST   VIRGINIA,    JUNE   8,    1898. 

As  a  friendly  touch  of  a  friendlj^  hand 
Is  warm  to  the  pulse  in  a  foreign  land, 

As  a  cooling  draught  to  lips  that  are  dry, 
Neath  the  noonday  sun  in  a  copper  sky. 

As  an  oasis  green  in  a  desert  vast. 

Is  the  remembrance  sweet  of  days  that  are  past. 

So  the  chapel  steps  I  mount  once  more, 
And  stand  entranced  at  the  chapel  door. 

I  look  within;  before  my  eyes 
An  oft  familiar  scene  doth  rise. 
Two  hundred  student  girls  and  boys, 
Just  in  the  heyday  of  their  joys. 
With  whispers  sly  and  flying  notes 
That  sail  like  tiny  fairy  boats. 
Across  the  intervening  space. 
Until  they  meet  a  blushing  face. 
Each  note  is  tucked  within  a  book 
And  read  with  many  a  watchful  look. 
Lest  teachers  catch  them  unawares 
And  five  demerits  then  be  theirs. 
Then  from  the  Book  which  all  endures, 
Somewhat  is  read  that  peace  insures. 
All  heads  are  bowed,  all  heads  are  bared. 
All  pray,  or  study  lessons  unprepared. 
When  this  is  o'er  the  jingling  bell 
A  well  known  sound  makes,  "tis  the  knell 
Of  this  brief  respite,  hour  of  pleasure. 
Fun  and  mischief  without  measure. 
Begrudge  us  not  those  happy  days, 
They  now  have  flown  like  flitting  jays, 
And  all  we  have  that  aye  shall  last. 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  past. 


POEM.  79 


i  meeL  you  louiglit  and  I  greet  you, 

Friends  of  the  days  gone  by; 
We  have  toiled  in  the  storm  and  the  tempest, 

We  have  hiughed  neath  a  smiling  sky. 

We  have  laughed,  we  have  wept,  I  tell  you. 

We  have  fought  the  battle  of  life. 
Now  some  are  laurel  crowned  victors, 

There  are  some  who  fell  in  the  strife. 

The  race  to  the  swift  not  always, 
Nor  conquerors  always  the  strong. 

But  honor  to  him  who  tights  bravely, 
Though  the  battle  may  not  be  long. 

A  tear  for  those  who  have  fallen, 

A  smile  for  those  who  have  won; 
And  a  shout  for  all  who  fought  bravely 

Until  the  battle  was  done. 

A  million  wheeling  worlds  in  space. 

Ten  thousand  blazing  suns. 
Controlled  are  governed  held  in  place 

By  might  of  mind  alone. 

There's  terror  in  the  earthquake's  shock, 

A  horror  in  the  howling  wind. 
More  terrible  and  mightier  far 

Are  daring  feats  of  mind. 

Unto  his  triumphal  car  this  God 
Doth  bind  all  other  powers 
And  moving  forces.     The  lightning- 
Is  his  willing  and  obedient  slave. 
And  with  winged  feet  doth  haste 
To  execute  the  slightest  wish  of  mind. 
The  roaring  winds  swell  sails 
That  haste  to  friendly  ports 
Rich  merchantmen.     The  dire  destroying 
Fire  that  brave  Prometheus  stole 
Warms  the  temple  in  which  mind  dwells, 
How  soon  we  know  not  this  haughty  God, 
This  mind,  shall  bid  the  winds  to  blow  or  cease, 
The  rain  to  fall  or  drouth  to  starve  the  plain. 


80  POEM. 


The  earth  to  tremble  or  Jbe  still. 

How  soon  shall  he  the  troubled  wave 

Becalm  or  placid  waters  heave  on  high, 

Perchance  ere  long  this  God,  this  mind 

Shall  haughty  grow  and  bid  the 

Spinning  worlds  to  stop  and  blazing  suns 

To  cease  to  shine, 

Who  knows,  can  think,  or  yet  predict 

How  great  a  God  this  mind  may  yet  become. 

The  mind  is  mighty  but  I  greet 
The  thought  of  friendship  as  more  sweet 
And  lasting  than  the  mind's  great  feat 
That  makes  up  wonder. 

A  kindly  heart  it  seems  to  me 
Is  more  than  sweetest  minstrelsy 
Or  glorious  deed  of  chivalry, 
E'en  though  it  blunder. 

I  love  the  friendly  warm  hand  clasp, 
The  sure  and  heartfelt  friendship  grasp. 
'Twill  be  remembered  when  a  gasp 
Parts  us  forever. 

I  think  it  is  but  little  worth 
If  names  are  famous  o'er  the  earth 
And  in  the  heart  there  is  a  dearth 
Of  kindly  greetings. 

When  Goethe's  mighty  soul 
Had  reached  the  goal 
And  he  was  passing  into  night 
He  cried  "  More  light!" 

Let  this  be  your  cry,  brother, 
More  light  for  one  another; 
More  light  to  know  the  pain 
That  follows  greedy  gain. 


POEM.  81 


There  are  cries  in  the  street 

And  the  faces  we  meet 

Are  pinched  by  want  and  need, 

There's  sorrow  and  care 

That  we  may  share 

If  the  cries  of  our  brothers  we  heed. 

More  strength,  more  light. 
More  courage  to  fight, 
That  evil  things  may  die. 
More  strength  more  light 
That  the  darkness  of  night 
Be  changed  to  a  smiling  day. 

Though  I  can  never  sing  Homeric  songs 
Or  untold  wealth  of  Croesus  claim, 
I  hope  I  shall  be  known  to  fame, 
As  one  who  did  a  friend  no  wrong. 

There's  little  virtue,  little  worth 
If  w^arm  blood  flows  not  in  the  heart. 
In  riches,  station,  beauty,  art. 
There's  yet  a  mighty  dearth. 

When  riches  wing  themselves  away. 
When  fortunes  crumble  into  dust, 
'Tis  then  you  need  a  friend  to  trust, 
To  trust  and  cling  to  in  that  day. 


THE  ISLAND  OF  DESPAIR. 


The  Island  of  Despair, 

It  was  called  the  "Island  of  Despair."  But  why  it  should 
have  had  such  a  name  I  can  but  let  you  imagine.  The  island 
itself  had  the  appearance  of  a  pleasure  garden,  at  least  to  one 
who  had  never  lived  upon  it.  Warm  breezes  came  over  the 
sea  and  i)ressed  their  languid  lips  to  the  ever  blooming  flowers. 
Birds  with  beautiful  plumage  and,  what  is  remarkable,  with 
sweet  songs  in  their  throats,  flew  from  branch  to  branch,  or 
hopped  among  the  tall  grass  and  brilliant  flowers.  When  the 
morning  sun  arose  ten  million  million  diamond  drops  of  dew 
glistened  in  the  light.  At  night  the  moon  saw  its  soft  reflec- 
tion in  clear  streams  that  looked  like  silver  bands  binding  the 
island  to  the  ocean.  The  dwellers  on  this  fair  spot  were  not 
incapable  of  enjoyment.  There  were  no  aged  persons  there. 
No  one  was  ever  born;  no  one  ever  died.  Beautiful  women, 
sisters  of  Venus  they  must  have  been,  arrayed  in  the  most 
costly  garments,  bedecked  with  priceless  jewels,  were  the  only 
representatives  of  their  sex  to  be  found  on  the  island.  Yet  it 
was  called  the  " Island  of  Despair."  Men,  young  men,  with 
strength  in  their  sinews  and  red  blood  in  their  veins  were  the 
constant  companions  of  the  beautiful  women.  For  all  this  it 
was  called,  this  island,  "The  Island  of  Despair." 

No  one  was  ever  happy  on  the  island.  Continual  misery  and 
dissatisfaction  gnawed  at  the  hearts  of  those  who  lived  upon  it. 
"  Why  is  this  beautiful  island  called  the  Island  of  Despair?"  I 
asked  of  the  stalwart,  handsome  young  man,  who  had  picked 
up  me,  a  shipwrecked  traveler,  in  his  pleasure  boat  and  taken 


THE  ISLAND  OF  DESPAIR.  83 

me  to  his  home.  "Ah!  you  have  not  yet  learned  the  secret  of 
our  misery,"  said  he.  "I  will  tell  you.  This  is  called  the 
'Island  of  Despair,'  because  we  who  live  upon  it  know  nothing' 
of  what  romancers  and  poets  call  Love.  We  have  no  part  in 
the  trinity  of  father,  mother,  child.  We  are  not  included  in 
the  cycle  birth,  life,  death.  We  call  love  a  fanciful  conjuration 
of  a  diseased  brain.     Selfishness  is  the  rule  of  our  lives" 

It  was  thus  the  young  man  spoke,  the  young  man  who  had 
spent  a  million  years  of  youth  on  the  beautiful  island  where 
selfishness  was  the  rule  of  life  and  where  Love  was  not  known. 
Then  I  thought  of  the  name  of  the  island  and  I  understood  why 
it  was  called  the  "Island  of  Despair." 


84  nFj'irnociTY. 


Reciprocity, 

(BY    A    BACK    COUNTKY    IMl  H,()S<  >IMI  i;ii.) 

You  have  seen  the  mighty  tyrant 
A  swayin'  of  the  throne, 
An'  oppressin'  of  his  subjects 
And  never  hear  'em  moan. 
You  have  called  him  hard  and  cruel, 
Thought  all  feelin'  he  did  lack; 
But  never  mind  about  him  for 
He  will  get  it  all  back. 

You  have  seen  a  cruel  father. 
When  hardened  he  had  grown. 
And  his  children  begged  for  bread, 
A  givin'  of  a  stone. 
And  when  they  asked  for  mercy 
They  would  get  another  whack, 
But  you  can  rest  assured 
He  will  get  it  all  back. 

Sometimes  we  send  our  money 

Aw^ay  to  heathen  lands, 

And  use  our  precious  savin's 

To  convert  the  savage  bands. 

And  they  think  we're  spendin'  money 

To  show  'em  the  right  track, 

But  unless  they're  mighty  slick 

We  will  get  it  all  back. 

The  merchant  aint  jist  honest; 
Mixes  sugar  and  some  sand. 
The  seemin'  uj)right  farmer 
Plays  a  half  dishonest  hand. 
And  they  think  no  one  will  know  it 
If  they  are  a  little  slack, 
But  don't  you  be  afraid. 
They  will  get  it  all  back. 


RECIPBOCITY.  85 


So  I  could  keop  a  singin' 

An'  a  tellin'  in  my  song, 

Of  the  lots  and  lots  of  people 

That  do  somethin'  that  is  wrong. 

And  they  think  it  makes  no  difference 

If  no  one  is  on  the  track, 

But  you  may  be  quite  certain 

They  will  get  it  all  back. 


THE  POET. 


The   Poet. 

Some  are  wont  to  make  light  of  poets.  Who  has  not  smiled 
sometime  in  his  life  at  the  puerile  effusions  of  some  versifier? 
By  him  who  is  not  guilty  shall  the  first  stone  be  cast.  The 
musty  and  moss-covered  jokes  about  the  spring  poet,  his  long 
hair,  his  shiny  clothes,  et  cetera,  are  too  current  for  comment. 
Shall  we  laugh  at  the  poet,  the  versifier  or  the  mere  scribbler 
of  lines?  Not  so.  To  me  there  is  no  verse  that  does  not  seem 
like  a  voice  from  a  better  land.  I  usually  read  the  poetry  in 
our  .magazines  first  of  all.  And  where,  pray  you,  may  worse 
poetry  be  'found  than  between  the  covers  of  our  most  highly 
respectable  magazines.     Not  in  this  book,  I  pray. 

But  it  is  not  for  beautiful  thoughts  and  polished  expression 
alone  one  reads  poetry.  There  is  a  rhythm  in  nature.  There 
is  a  music  of  the  spheres.  "Such  harmony  is  in  immortal 
souls"  and  every  poem,  every  verse,  however  feeble  and  weak, 
is  a  beat  of  that  rhythm,  a  note  of  that  music,  a  chord  of  that 
harmony. 

Poetry  is  the  youth  of  the  soul;  prose  is  its  manhood.  All 
literatures  attest  that  poetry  is  the  earlier  form.  After  the 
mind  is  developed  it  reasons,  and  reasoning  is  death  to  the 
imagination.  Who  can  even  imagine  that  Shakesjieare  would 
have  towered  to  such  heights  of  thought  or  so  carefully 
unw^ound  the  tangle  of  human  passions  had  he  been  more 
highly  educated. 

So  hither  all  ye  warblers  of  springtime  ballads,  in  me  you 
will  find  a  friend  and  defender.  Your  rhymes  may  be  false, 
your  accents  awry,  and  your  feet  maimed  and  halt,  but  your 
hearts  are  pure,  and  for  that  I  love  you. 


BEG  VITAL.  87 


Requital 

Ah  well-a-day!  we  sow  and  reax)  not; 

We  toil,  grow  thin  and  pale; 

We  rack  our  brains  and  sleep  not, 

That  those  who  follow  after 

May  till  their  lives  with  laughter, 

Have  rich  harvests  and  be  hale. 


88  A    TI!  ANSI  AT/ ON. 


A  Translation. 

Among'  my  literary  curiosities  I  liave  the  following  letter 
written  by  a  young  man,, very  poor,  to  a  very  rich  and  beautiful 
lady,  with  whom  he  was  at  one  time  in  love,  but  having  been 
spurned,  came  to  hate  her.  As  the  original  is  in  Persian,  I 
take  the  liberty  to  translate  it: 

"Most  Fair  Queen:  Once  I  loved  you, 
now  I  loathe  you.  Once  you  were  the  idol 
of  my  eye,  the  inspiration  of  my  muse; 
now  you  are  hateful  to  my  sight.  How 
you  strut  in  your  finery!  But  I  tell  you 
the  time  will  come  when  all  your  silks 
will  be  moth-eaten,  all  your  finery  will  be 
dust.  That  sparkling  diamond  on  your  fin- 
ger will  at  last  clasp  only  a  bone.  Your 
eyes  that  so  sparkle  now  will  sometime  fall 
through  their  sockets  and  waste-away ;  in 
your  hollow  skull.  Those  breasts  white 
as  snow  and  polished  as  ivory  shall  be  eat- 
en of  worms.  Those  arms  that  once  could 
have  transported  me  to  heaven  by  a  single 
embrace  will  then  be  a  terror  to  behold. 
Thy  throat  from  which  now  such  sweet 
music  comes  will  be  the  highway  of  the 
devouring  worm.  Living,  moving,  sing- 
ing, I  hate  thee;  dead,  festering,  rotting, 
I  abhor  thee.  All  in  all,  Idespise,  I  detest, 
I  scorn,  I  curse,  I  hate  you. 

Your  one  time  lover,  but  now  your  evil 

genius. 

Omak  Hah-Kanem. 


MEDLEY. 


Medley. 


POEM   READ    BEFORE    THE     WEST    VIROrNIA    EDITORIAL     ASSOCIATION   AT  WESTON.   WEST 
VIRGINIA.    MAY  21ST,   IS'.tT. 

I've  ^ot  up  here  to  read  my  piece, 

Before  this  august  body, 
And  should  I  own  the  honest  truth 

I'm  f  eelin'  rather  '  'shoddy  !  " 

If  I  could  write  like  Shakespeare, 

Or  even  like  Longfellow, 
I'd  get  up  here  and  read  a  poem 

And  wouldn't  feel  so  mellow. 

But  that  I  can't  as  you  well  know, 

At  least  I  think  you  ought  to. 
But  I  am  billed  to  read  a  piece. 

And  this  is  what  I  have  brought  you. 

The  office  goat  is  hungry. 

And  if  you  don't  like  what  I  read, 

I've  yet  this  consolation — 
The  goat  can  have  a  feed. 

First  I  pray  you  listen 

Unto  a  little  ditty. 
In  haste  'tis  writ — don't  publish  it— 

About  this  little  City. 

ODE   TO    WESTON. 

Hail  thou  Weston!     Pleasant  City, 

Sitting  'mong  the  verdant  hills. 
With  a  carpet  spread  before  you, 

Watered  by  the  silver  rills. 
There  is  rest  beneath  your  shade  trees, 

There  is  peace  within  your  homes, 
Which  your  wandering  son  remembers, 

Little  mp.tter  where  he  roams. 

Fair  the  skies  that  bend  above  you, 
Fair  the  stars  that  glitter  down; 

But  no  fairer  than  thy  daughters 
Dwelling  in  their  native  town. 


90  MEDLEY. 


Pure  the  waters  rippling  round  you 
That  from  mountain  fountains  came. 

But  the  virtues  of  thy  daughters 
Make  the  waters  blush  for  shame. 

Strong  the  hills  that  rise  around  you 

Beckoning  us  to  higher  ken, 
But  the  strength  of  all  3^our  hill-tops 

Matches  not  your  mighty  men. 
And  methinks  were  you  destroyed, 

Leveled  by  the  licking  tire, 
All  thy  sons  would  straight  betake  them 

Build  theel     Build  thee  ever  higher. 

Long,  ah  long  shall  I  remember 

How  we  fared  in  Weston  town— 
In  the  guest  room  of  our  memories 

All  your  gifts  are  noted  down. 
When  again  our  eyes  shall  see  thee 

It  is  truly  hard  to  tell. 
But  our  hearts  will  say  in  parting, 

"Beauteous  Weston,  Fare-the-welll" 


The  next  thing  that  I  bring  you 
Is  the  Editors'  little  song, 

Which  has  at  least  one  merit. 
It  isn't  very  long. 

He  sits  in  his  office  weary — 
The  ink  he  cannot  sling. 

He  feels  so  awful  bummy, 
And  thus  begins  to  sing. 

editor's  song. 

Life  is  dreary, 
I  am  weary. 

And  the  copy  hook  is  bare: 
I  was  out  last  night 
And  cannot  write, 

So  I  swear  and  i)uil  my  hair. 

Hope  is  fled — 

I  wish  I  were  dead, 


MEDLEY.  91 


And  throngh  the  gates  on  high. 
The  pressman  Joe 
Has  stumped  his  toe, 

An  two  galleys  are  now  in  pi. 

The  "devil"  is  .sick, 
The  ink  is  thick, 

And  the  pony  refuses  to  go. 
I  think  I'll  sell 
And  move  to — well 

Where  little  birds  don't  shovel  snow. 

A  list  of  arrears, 
Covering  several  years, 

With  no  hopes  they  will  ever  pay: 
Still  I  hoe  my  row, 
But  I've  got  no  dough — 

Oh,  I  am  a  miserable  jay! 


But  while  he  is  singing  so  happy  and  gay, 

An  irate  subscriber  is  passing  that  way. 

And  dropped  in  the  office  with  horse-whip  and  gun. 

And  the  editor  passed  through  the  back  door  on  a  run. 

Then  down  in  his  bed  room  he  sits  him  and  thinks 
Of  the  hardness  of  life  and  the  softness  of  drinks— 
And  while  he  is  following  along  in  this  strain. 
These  are  the  thoughts  that  flit  through  his  brain. 

A  RETROSPECT. 

When  Paris  to  his  Trojan  home 

Led  back  his  Grecian  bride. 
And  bore  her  safely  in  his  bark 

Across  the  raging  tide. 
Then  Menelaus,  the  one  bereft. 

Cut  up  some  ugly  capers. 
But  not  a  one  the  story  read 

In  the  next  morning's  papers. 

When  Caesar  led  his  Roman.host^ 
Away  up  in  old  Gaul, 


MEDLEY. 


He  met  the  bearded  Gothic  men 
And  drove  them  to  the  wall. 

The  noble  Romans  left  behind 
Could  do  naught  else  but  choose 

To  wait  some  months  for  tidings — 
There  was  no  Daily  News. 

Then  when  old  Alexander 

Had  conquered  all  the  world 
And  all  his  troops  were  sent  away 

And  all  his  banners  furled, 
He  could  not  sit  him  down  at  night 

After  affairs  diurnal, 
And  see  his  name  and  read  his  fame 

Writ  in  the  Daihj  .Jounud. 

Wlicn  down  to  Egypt  Caesar  went 

And  can-iod  Avar's  allaruuis. 
Subduing  Cleopatra  fair, 

By  daring  deeds  of  arms. 
The  leathery  gossip  at  his  home 

With  envy  turned  not  green, 
For  no  Egyptian  special 

Brouglit  tidings  of  the  scene. 


And  now,  good  friends,  I  pray  you, 

Come  listen  unto  me. 
And  I  will  close  my  doggerel 

With  an  apostrojihe. 

AN   APOSTROPHE. 

Well  now,  njy  friends,  ye  editors, 

Ye  wielders  of  the  pen, 
Who  educate  the  populace 

And  mold  the  minds  of  men, 
Prom  every  town  and  liamlet, 

From  every  pleasant  liill, 
P''rom  where  the  beech  and  chestnut 

Hang  o'er  the  ripj^ling  rill. 

From  where  the  broad  Potomac 
Slips  silent  to  the  sea. 


MEDLEY.  93 


To  where  the  rough  Kanawha 

Rolls  onward  to  the  lea. 
And  from  the  smiling  meadows 

That  line  Ohio's  shore, 
To  where  Monongahela's  tides 

Plow  on  forever  more. 

From  every  plain  and  wooded  height 

You  have  gathered  here  today, 
Like  knights  prepared  for  battle, 

And  ready  for  the  fray. 
To  gather  inspiration 

And  to  clasp  each  other's  hands, 
To  bind  your  hearts  together 

As  though  with  iron  bands. 

To  increase  hope  and  courage 

To  help  you  on  your  way; 
To  touch  the  lute  of  friendship. 

That  it  may  happy  play — 
You  have  come  from  every  section 

To  Weston  town  today. 

And  let  me  say  in  closing. 

When  homeward  you  shall  turn. 
Let  on  the  altars  of  your  hearts 

The  fires  of  friendship  burn; 
So  when  again  you  grasp  your  pen, 

I  pray  you  wield  it  well — 
And  now,  my  brother  editors, 

I  bid  you  all  farewell! 


Confreres. 

In  the  pages  that  follow  will  be  found  verses  taken  at  ran- 
dom from  the  writings  of  some  of  my  friends.  These  are  not 
intended  as  representative  of  their  best  work,  but  are  such  as 
I  had  at  hand.  They  are  inserted  here,  not  with  the  knowl- 
edge and  consent  of  the  writers,  but  on  my  own  responsibility, 
because  I  think  them  worth  preserving. 

H.  L.  Swisher. 


SUCCESS.  95 


Success. 

Two  ships  sail  over  the  harbor  bar 
With  the  flush  of  the  morning  breeze, 

And  both  are  bound  for  a  haven  far 
O'er  the  shimmering  summer  seas. 

With  sails  all  set,  fair  wind  and  tide, 

They  steer  for  the  open  main; 
But  little  they  reck  of  the  billows  wide 

E'er  they  anchor  safe  again. 

There  is  one,  perchance,  e'er  the  summer  is  done, 

That  reaches  the  port  afar. 
She  hears  the  sound  of  the  w^elcoming  gun 

As  she  crosses  the  harbor  bar. 

The  haven  she  reaches,  success,  'tis  said 

Is  the  end  of  a  perilous  trip, 
Perchance  e'en  the  bravest  and  best  are  dead 

Who  sailed  in  the  fortunate  ship. 

The  other  bereft  of  shroud  and  sail, 

At  the  mercy  of  wind  and  tide, 
Is  swept  by  the  might  of  the  pitiless  gale 

'Neath  the  billows  dark  and  wide. 

But  'tis  only  the  one  in  the  harbor  there 

That  receiveth  the  meed  of  praise; 
The  other  sailed  when  the  morn  was  fair 

And  was  lost  in  the  stormy  ways. 

And  so  to  the  men  who  have  won  renown 

In  the  weary  battle  of  life. 
There  cometh  at  last  the  victor's  crown; 

Not  to  him  who  fell  in  the  strife. 

For  the  world  recks  not  of  those  who  fail. 

Nor  cares  what  their  trials  are. 
Only  praises  the  ship  that  with  swelling  sail 

Comes  in  o'er  the  harbor  bar. 

— M.  S.  Cormvell, 


96  WHEN  DAD  STRIKES  ILE. 


When  Dad  Strikes  He. 

If  dad  strikes  ile — oh,  how  it  makes  me  smile! 

He  says  he'll  fit  me  out  in  tine  things, 
An'  I  always  will  be  dressed,  jes'  in  the  very  best, 

An'  I'll  wear  a  heap  o'  rings — 
When  dad  strikes  ile. 

If  dad  strikes  ile,  I'll  neither  bake  ner'bile; 

I'll  hev  all  the  house  work  done; 
An'  the  organ  I  will  play  all  through  the  blessed  day. 

An'  I'll  jes'  hev  lots  of  fun 
When  dad  strikes  ile. 

If  dad  strikes  ile,  all  the  girls  I'll  quickly  rile; 

Their  eyes  I'll  turn  a  grassy  green, 
Fer  I'll  use  up  every  art  to  break  the  manly  heart. 

An'  I'll  be  the  village  queen 
When  dad  strikes  ile. 

If  dad  strikes  ile,  I'll  drive  the  easy  mile 

To  the  preachin'  every  Sunday  afternoon. 
In  a  buggy  bright  and  new — an*  I'll  hev  company  too — 
Oh,  I  hope  it  will  be  soon, 
When  dad  strikes  ile! 

— John  Wallace. 


THE  BIARWEirS  LOVE.  9l 


The  Mariner's  Love. 

"The  continuous  roar 

Of  the  surf  on  the  shore, 

As  it  dashes  its  wild  billows  high, 

Makes  sweet  music  to  me. 

Born  and  bred  by  the  sea, 

Where  the  sea  gull  and  storm  petrels  fly. 

And  if  ever  should  I, 

From  the  sea  forced  to  fly, 

Settle  down  in  some  far  distant  land; 

Where  the  surf  billow's  roar 

Came  to  me  never  more. 

Or  salt  breeze  my  brow  gently  fanned; 

Then  I  hope  that  e'er  long 

(Though  the  hope  may  be  wrong). 

That  the  God  to  whom  we  seamen  pray, 

Will  look  down  from  the  sky 

And  permit  me  to  die," 

Said  a  mariner  bold  from  the  bay. 

Years  had  passed  since  the  time 

When  the  man  in  his  prime 

Had  spoken  these  brave  words  to  me; 

And  that  mariner  bold 

Had  grown  gray  and  old. 

And  had  left  his  old  home  by  the  sea. 

For  when  storm  witches  rave 

O'er  the  foam  covered  wave. 

Naught  but  strength  can  their  fury  withstand; 

And  when  muscle  and  brawn 

Are  with  fleeting  years  gone 

An  old  man  is  far  better  on  land. 

In  a  far  inland  town. 

O'er  which  grim  mountains  frown, 

On  his  death-bed  our  mariner  lay; 

Each  laboring  sigh 

And  his  slow  glazing  eye 

Told  his  life  sands  were  ebbing  away. 

Spoke  the  mariner  low: 


98  THE  MARINER'S  LOVE. 

"  My  lads,  will  you  go 

And  carry  me  back  to  the  sea, 

And  dig  me  a  grave 

Where  the  incoming  wave 

Will  heap  the  salt  sea-weed  o'er  me?" 

And  now  there's  a  mound, 

Where  the  murmuring  sound 

Of  the  breakers  that  play  on  the  shore, 

Make  sweet  music  to  him 

Who  was  once  wont  to  stem 

E'en  their  wildest  weird  warring  of  yore. 


Years  have  passed  since  that  time; 

I  have  long  passed  my  prime; 

And  I  stand  old  and  as  feeble  as  he. 

Before  me  the  grave, 

And  beyond  it  the  w^ave 

That  its  occupant  once  loved  to  see. 

What's  the  moral?     Well,  you. 

Who  have  loved  and  are  true. 

Will  scarce  ask  the  moral  of  me. 

Here  a  hero  lies  dead. 

And  over  his  head 

Croons  the  voice  of  his  life's  love,  the  sea. 

Geo.  M.  Ford. 


THE  DEAD  SURE  THING  99 


The  Dead  Sure  Thing. 

My  son,  in  all  your  progress 
Through  this  sinful  vale  of  tears, 
In  all  your  plans  and  projects 
In  all  the  coming  years, 
Upon  this  bit  of  wisdom 
Let  your  mind  all  changes  ring, 
The  most  elusive  thing  in  nature. 
Is 
the 
dead 
sure 
thing. 


You  may  toil  and  you  may  struggle 
In  a  bitter  fight  with  fate, 
But  you'd  better  true  accept  it 
Before  it  is  too  late. 
It's  as  certain  as  that  time  endures 
And  its  truth  all  ages  sing. 
The  most  elusive  thing  in  nature 
Is 
the 
dead 
sure 

thing. 


The  most  bitter  pill  to  swallow, 

The  sharpest  pang  of  all. 

Comes  when  pride  of  certain  victory 

Has  gone  before  the  fall; 

But  the  final,  firm  acceptance 


loo  THE  DEAD  ST  HE  Til  IXC. 


Of  this  truth  removes  the  sthi^i,-, 
The  most  elusive  thing  in  nature 
Is 
the 
dead 
sure 

thing. 

Then  defeat  is  but  a  milestone 
On  the  i-oad  to  victory. 
Each  rebuff  will  only  help  you 
Your  mistake  each  time  to  see, 
If  to  this  word  of  warning 
You  will  let  your  spirit  cling, 
The  most  elusive  thing  in  nature 
Is 
the 
dead 

sure 

thing. 

— Juslin  M.  Kaiikle. 


ON  TUMBLE- DOWN  STREET.  101 


On  Tumble^Down  Street. 

On  TuQible-Down  Street's  the  boss  place  to  have  fun, 
'Cause  there  you  can  play  at  Black-man  and  run 
Ever  "where,  an'  do  jes  anything  'at  you  like — 
There's  where  Dick  Martin  lives,  an's  big  brother  Ike. 

Gee-mo-me!  I'd  ruther  be  Dick,  pore's  he  is, 
'An  to  be  President.  I  would,  'y  gee  whizz! 
Ef  I  could  only  live  on  Tumble-Down  Street, 
Even  ef  you  don't  get  good  things  to  eat. 

What's  cookies  and  pies  when  you  jes  got  plenty! 
One's  better  when  you've  hooked  it  an'  tiuenty 
'At  your  mother  gives  you  to  run  out  and  play — 
D ruther  have  the  one  'at  you  hook'd,  any  day. 

On  Tumble-Down  Street  on'y  pore  people  lives. 
But  I  wish't  to  goodness  we  lived  there,  fer't  gives 
Me  the  lonesomes  up  here  where  things  is  so  tine 
'At  you  can't  live  at  your  ease — I'm  jes  a  dyin' 

To  live  way  down  there  on  old  Tumble-Down  Street; 
Wear  raggedy  clo'se  an'  go  in  my  bare  feet — 
W'y,  there  you  don't  have  to  wash  more'n  once  a  week, 
Ner  dress  up  on  Sunday  and  look  so  blame  meek — 

Jes  like  you  didn't  want  to  go  fishin',  you  know, 
Ner  wouldn't  think,  even,  of  goin'  a  swimmin',  tho' 
You're  all  the  time  longin',  plannin'  an'  wishin' 
"At  you  could  run  away  an'  go  swimmin'  er  lishin'. 

Tell  you  what!  Tumble-Down  Street's  the  place  to  live! 
Dog  my  cats,  ef  that  aint  right!  An'  I  wouldn't  give 
A  day  on  Tumble-Down  Street  fer  a  life-time 
Where  we  live,  an'  ever'thing's  so  dog-gone  line. 

I  was  goin'  to  tell  you — purt  nigh  forgot! 

'At  Dick  Martin's  little  sister,  they  call  "Dot," 

'S  the  purtiest  girl  ever  saw  in  my  life! 

An'  some  day,  mebbe,  Dick's  sister'll  be  my  wife! 

— C.  Luke  Michael. 


102  Y EST K I! DA  Y. 


Yesterday. 

O  yesterday,  oh  yesterday! 
Ob  day  that  is  forever  spent, 
What  was  your  purpose  or  intent? 
Why  were  you  on  your  errand  sent, 
To  speed  so  rapidly  away? 

You  came  with  morning's  brightest  ray, 
And  quickly  after  you  arrived, 
By  skill  and  effort  you  contrived 
To  have  all  nature's  work  revived, 
And  bring  her  forces  into  play. 

You  left  us  as  the  moon's  pale  beam 
Was  casting  down  its  fainter  hue, 
Just  as  the  stars  came  into  view. 
And  o'er  the  earth  the  darkness  grew 
From  hill -top  to  the  winding  stream. 

Came  you  to  see  what  was  achieved 
By  man  in  search  for  something  new? 
Or  what  he  may  have  learned  to  do. 
That  none  before  him  ever  knew? 
If  so,  yon  saw  much  and  believed. 

Or.  did  you  come  with  sw^ord  in  hand. 
That  man  on  man  might  war  declare? 
That  many  hearts  should  know  despair, 
While  even  wives  and  daughters  fair 
Pall  victims  to  the  savage  band? 

Or  maybe  you  came  in  robes  of  white, 
That  men  might  learn  to  be  at  peace. 
The  starving  prisoners  to  release, 
Prom  cruel  w^ars  and  strifes  to  cease 
And  turn  their  hearts  to  what  is  right. 

Yes,  all  of  this  you've  done  and  seen, 
Yov've  passed  the  desert  brown  and  bare 
The  woodland  with  it's  flowers  rare. 
You've  breathed  the  purest  mountain  air. 
And  smiled  upon  the  meadows  green. 


YESTEIWA  Y.  10^. 


Some  broken  hearts  you  left  to  moan, 
To  sigh  and  shed  the  bitter  tear 
At  loss  of  some  one,  loved  and  dear, 
Who  has  gone  from  pain  and  fear, 
And  griefs  that  never  will  be  known. 

But  others  you  found  as  glad  and  gay 
As  is  the  bird  upon  the  tree; 
While  some  were  toiling  like  the  bee, 
Some  were  oppressed,  and  others  free, 
Such  changing  scenes  viewed  in  a  day. 

How  various  are  the  tasks  you've  done; 
Some  anxious  heart  you  taught  to  pray. 
Some  youth  from  duty  led  astray, 
And  gray  heads  you  have  made  more  gray, 
Prom  morn  to  setting  of  the  sun. 

You've  lifted  some  from  poverty. 
Some  fortunes  gained,  while  others  lost, 
Some  on  financial  waves  were  tossed. 
And  like  a  ship  the  storm  had  crossed. 
When  riding  on  an  angry  sea. 

Now  tell  us  from  the  unseen  past 
Where  you  have  made  your  habitation. 
Tell  why  so  short  was  your  duration. 
And  gone  as  with  a  conflagration. 
While  shadows  dim  the  lamp  light  cast. 

■ — Jan.  W.  Horn. 


ini^  Till-:  ISIJ-:  OF  (!()L\(s-T()-iu-:. 


The  Isle  of  Going^'to^be. 

Far  out  yonder  on  the  misty  sea, 
Fringed  with  bright  flowers  eternally, 
Lies  the  fair  Isle  of  Going-to-be. 

And  birds  are  warbling  sweet  melody, 
The  lilies  nod  and  beckon  me 
Out  to  this  Isle  of  Going-to-be. 

Sail  out  with  the  tide  in  merry  glee! 
Sail  out  in  youth  while  'tis  plain  to  see 
This  magic  Isle  of  Going-to-be! 

For  waves  of  doubt  foam  'round  o'er  the  lea, 
And  we  ne'er  reach  this  isle  in  the  sea — 
This  phantom  Isle  of  Going- to-be. 

C.  Luke  Michael. 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  KERCHIEF.  105 


The  Little  White  Kerchief  and  Pennies  of  Gold. 

The  tvhite  kerchief  and  pennies  of  gold ! 
Oh,  what  a  love  story  all  these  could  unfold ! 
No  gold  ever  sparkled  as  bright  as  her  eyes, 
And  they  were  as  blue  as  the  depth  of  the  skies. 

I  gave  them  in  token  of  love  never  told — 

The  little  lohite  kerchief  and  j'tennies  of  gold. 

Oh,  could  she  but  know  of  the  love  she  has  lost, 

The  tears  and  the  heartaches  this  lost  love  has  cost! 

No  flower  ever  bloomed  whose  tints  were  so  rare 
As  the  blush  on  her  cheeks — no  sunshine  so  fair. 
Tlie  little  tvhite  kerchief  and  pennies  of  gold — 
I  would  they  were  mine — mine  ever  to  hold! 

But  my  heart  has  grown  weary  waiting  so  long, 
And  my  soul  never  hums  but  a  desolate  song. 
The  fires  of  my  love  have  gone  out  and  grown  cold 
O'er  the  little  ivhite  kerchief  and  pennies  of  gold. 

G.  Luke  Michael. 


lOe  VM  OOIN'  HOME  FER  CWBTSTMAS. 


I'm  Goin  Home  fci*  Christmas. 

I'm  oroin'  home  fer  Christmas— back  to  the  old  homestead! 

Fer  dad's  writ  me  quite  a  letter  and  says  that  Jim  and  Ned, 

And  Billy,  my  scape.sroat  brother,  and  Jane,  'Ion,?  with  her  man, 

In  fact,  we'll  all  be  there;  the  hull  caboose  and  van! 

And  even  Uncle  'Liere's  days  o'  fussin'  were  all  past. 

Thet  the  quarrel  'bout  their  boss  trade  was  sure  to  be  the  last, 

And  thet  mother  wuz  feelin'  poorly,  but  he  reckoned  she'd  be 

spry 
If  she  had  us  all  to  cook  fer  as  in  the  days  gone  by. 

So  I'm  goin'  home  fer  Christmas,  and  I  wonder  when  I  go 
If  I'll  gas  around  like  others  thet  our  country  ways  air  slow. 
I  know  thet  Abner  Burton,  jest  home  from  a  city  school, 
And  one  o'  the  Smiths,  who'd  travelled  some,  us'  to  ridicule 
The  style  o'  clothes  we  alius  wore:  and  the  way  we  carried  on 
They  said  would  shock  a  feller  who'd  seen  the  gay  bon  ton. 
And  they  axed  old  Hiram  Peters  how  he  passed  the  time  away: 
Said  Hiram,  ruther  dry  like— "A-passin'  the  time  o'  day." 

But  when  the  train  pulls  in  and  dad's  a-standin'  there 

And  waitin'  with  the  family  rig  and  my  old  fav'rite  mare. 

As  he  grabs  my  hands  so  warmly  thet  I'm  skeered  I'll  lose  an 

arm, 
I'll  holler  out  the  praises  o'  the  greetin's  o'  the  farm. 
And  when  he's  sized  me  up  and  told  me  how  I've  growed 
I'll  busy  him  with  questions  as  we  drive  along  the  road; 
I'll  ax  him  'bout  the  neighbors,  and  who  be  married  off — 
But  'bout  the  squires  darter,  I'll  kind  o'  hem  and  cough. 

Yes,  I'm  goin'  home  fer  Christmas,  and  already  I  kin  see 
The  old  home  by  the  willers  jest  as  it  us'  to  be; 
The  night  drops  down  her  shadders,  but  ev'ry  winder  pane 
Gleams  out  its  streaks  o'  gladness  in  a  welcome  home  again; 
And  the  house  dog  barks  mycom  in',  as  we  drive  in  through 

the  gate, 
To  the  failin'  ears  o'  mother:  and  she  fidgets  'bout  the  wait. 
Till  my  kisses  chase  the  wrinkles  from  off  the  haunts  o'  care — 
Oh,  I'm  gittin  too  impatient,  but  on  Christmas  I'll  be  there! 

John  Wallace. 


EXPECTATION.  107 


Expectation, 

On  the  shore  of  the  ocean  of  hfe  I  am  sitting 

And  looking  far  out  on  its  watery  waste, 
Where  the  sea  seems  to  meet  the  iieecy  clouds,  flitting 

'Thwart  the  sky  where  the  line  of  horizon  is  traced. 

In  patience  and  hope  many  years  I  have  waited 
For  the  ship  of  my  dreams  to  rise  o'er  the  crest, 

And  bring  me  the  treasures  with  which  it  is  freighted, 
The  realization  of  hope  unconfessed. 

But  the  ship  of  my  visions  is  not  yet  in  sight. 
And  hope  once  so  strong,  is  beginning  to  die. 

Yet  still  I  sit  waiting  from  morning  till  night 

Every  day,  and  still  hope  that  my  ship  will  draw  nigh. 

J.  Gal.  Watkins. 


108  A  SYLVAN  TRAGEDY. 


A  Sylvan  Tragedy. 

Like  sentinels  sear,  the  oak  trees  stand, 

As  they  stood  ages  agone; 
Guarding  the  gates  to  a  wonderland 

Where  the  beautiful  sleep  on. 

Where  the  beautiful  sleep,  and  may  hope  to  dream 

Of  a  world  that  can  not  wake, 
For  the  world  lies  beyond  the  gurgling  stream 

And  beyond  the  edging  lake. 

The  sear  leaves  fall,  and  the  green  leaves  shoot 

From  the  buds  and  mosses  twine. 
O'er  the  fallen  trunks  their  leaves  minute, 

Their  leaves  the  hue  of  the  pine. 

By  the  sentinels  tall,  comes  the  forests'  foe 

And  starts  the  hare  to  its  den. 
He  whistles  a  warning  now  high,  now  low. 

Which  echoes,  then  dies  again. 

He  muddies  the  stream  in  its  shallow  bed 

As  he  crosses  but  does  not  slack. 
When  the  loose  soil  presses  beneath  his  tread 

And  the  flowers  lie  bruised  in  his  track. 

"I  will  strike  at  the  heart,"  doubtless  thinks  the  foe, 

For  at  a  giant's  root  he  stops. 
He  severs  its  bark  at  a  single  blow 

And  deepens  the  wound  as  he  chops. 

At  his  stroke  the  birds  in  the  lowest  round 

Of  its  branches  start  and  cry. 
The  nestlings  answer  with  feeble  sound 

And  flutter  helplessly. 


A  SYLVAN  TRAGEDY.  109 


Another,  another,  the  blows  fall  fast. 

Till  the  boughs  begin  to  sway. 
Exultingly  strikes  he  the  mighty  last, 

And  its  very  heart  gives  way. 

The  crash  is  a  knell  to  the  lesser  growth. 

A  dirge  for  the  nestlings,  too, 
The  oak  and  the  birds  have  fallen,  both. 

By  the  hand  of  the  forests'  foe. 

But  a  monument  stands  where  the  deed  was  done. 

And  o'er  it  the  green  bough  bends; 
'Tis  the  woodman's  home,  built  of  mighty  oaks. 

And  the  birds  are  his  dearest  friends. 

Alice  Pier  ml-  Cain, 


